Birds of a feather
by hallelujah
Summary: Dick muses and discovers some new feelings. DickTim slash
1. Chapter 1

I caught him at the supermarket when I called. I try to sound cheery for his sake. His voice is flat like always-- getting more and more like Bruce everyday. His eyes are darkening, they get bluer and bluer each time I see him, blurred with some distant memory he's no doubt repressing. More and more like Bruce. Sometimes I'm scared he'll snap someday and end up killing somebody. Or more importantly himself.

I know he hates the phone, and I'm grateful he bothered to answer. I was my usual campy self. Sometimes I think I don't belong in this family, especially when the two of them stand side-by-side, tall and erect like always, eyes gleaming with the arrogance that always seemed to fail my own body right before it reached the surface.

My hands are doing something altogether separate from the rest of my body again. Chop Chop Chop, the knife slices into the tomato so easily. I shouldn't really be surprised-- I sharpen them everyday. The movements are so blurred and quick, I could really be a gourmet chef if I wanted to; thank you Alfred. I make a mental note to invite him over for dinner sometime. Bruce too. And Tim. That boy needs to eat better-- he's getting too skinny. I wince as the tip of the blade slices into my finger as easily as the tomato, and the redness of blood mixes with my salad. I eat it anyway.

The room hums with the familiar beep of electronics. T.V. Stereo. Telephone. Pager. Computer. Everything to keep me from actually having to venture into the world of human beings. Barbara is online. Oracle, I mean. She doesn't go by Barbara anymore-- at least not with me. I suppose I should count myself lucky that I live in an era where I don't actually have to move my mouth to speak to my paralyzed ex-girlfriend. No, I shouldn't say that. She was never actually my girlfriend. Whenever I have to go see her it's a flurry of awkward head scratches. Don't look at her legs, don't look at her legs. My English fails me and wilts from my tongue. Don't think about her skirt and those long milky legs... god I'm sick. Those useless tangles of flesh, sinew, and muscle. I look at my own powerful legs, honed through years of training. Bruce really put me through it. I guess I can't complain. Tim got it worse. Well, anyway. The room is cold, sterile. Much more blank than any of my so-called family would expect of me. Except maybe Bruce. He never has to say anything but he has the creepy all-knowing thing going on. I used to look up to him for that, now I just try to run from it. Can he see through my body into the black wells of my heart? No, I tell myself. That's Clark, you idiot.

Babs used to turn me into a babbling pool of awkward teenage hormones. I actually thought I was going to marry her and spend the rest of my life with her when we first met. Naiveté is incredible when coupled with testosterone. Once I told her I loved her and she laughed. She laughed. Not even in a mocking way, just soft friendly laughter. That was always the type Barbara was. I think that was when I developed a thing for redheads. Kory was different. She needed me. I needed her to need me. It was sweet at first, the way she clung to me. All of her alien strength and super powers and she needed plain old human me. In a lot of ways she was more human than Barbara ever was.

I stab myself with the fork and don't even blink. That's how batboys grow up. Dont blink. Don't show the pain. Jason was never good at that. Couldn't control his temper. And now he's, well... I sigh. After that, Bruce took his training to the extreme. Especially with Tim. He doesn't show anything, sometimes his voice gives me chills and I feel sorry for the boy who grew up too quickly. But I know how that is. Bruce is just doing what he thinks it's best. Don't show weakness, Dick. Don't show weakness, Tim. His humanity is peeled from him each time he puts on the cowl. Sometimes I worry there will be nothing left. Those two, they're made for each other yet they don't have each other. Bruce and Tim. Tim and Bruce. Mirror images but they could never break through the glass. Some sort of cold understanding is as far as they'll ever get. Neither of them has anybody left. Oh yes-- Dana. I always forget she's in the picture. Dana. Stepmother to a nobody, a phantom. A boy behind a mask and cape trying to fight his way through his pain. She doesn't even own him anymore. Own. What a funny phrase legally. My fists clench as I pull the metal out of my hand and some part of me knows I did it on purpose. I'm not the clumsy type.

I go to my secret place. The secret floor all the tenants have learned to ignore yet long to venture into. It leers at me from its case. Black dye. Just fabric. I pick up the mask and put it to my face. Just a second ago I was Dick. Now I'm Nightwing. Just a piece of material and it changes me completely. Dick. Not Dick. Nightwing. Batman. Bruce. Robin. Tim. Jason. Stephanie. Cassandra. Barbara. Suddenly we're all each other and I'm overwhelmed. I love my secret place. It'll ruin me someday. I ask it not to, I almost pray to the mantle sometimes. Please don't destroy me. I'm a coward inside. I used to be afraid of heights before my father taught me that heights were where God was. I tried to fly so high to be where God was. Now my father's gone. John Grayson. Deceased. Tried to be where God was. Bruce was... Bruce was just another attempt at God. To look him straight in the eyes as he contemplated snapping a man's neck. He could've done it but chose not to. Is that what God is? I put the mask down and it glares at me. Is that what I look like, a permanent glower? I've been spending too much time with Bruce. With Tim. No, not enough time with Tim.

Sometimes it hurts to put the costume on. The material scrapes my chest and that awkward place at the back of my knees where my skin is chaffed raw from bad habits and training. Nobody knows about that. I like to have the place behind my knees all to myself. Another secret place. We're all so good at keeping fucking secrets. I pull it over my chest and the transformation is complete. I've become a man acting like a god acting like a man. I have come like the fifth horseman to dole out justice as I see fit. Sometimes I wish they'd crucify me. The villains, the citizens. Just string me up and take off the mask and shout, "you're not our god!" Then I would rest with the rest of the bats, hanging upside down dead somewhere. No more questions or concerned looks from Alfred, understanding glares from Bruce. Of course i wouldn't do that. The all-American little Richard committing suicide. Ha. I wouldn't give it a second thought. My skin screams, raw and red, and suddenly I hear a voice screaming as well and I realize it's me. And I can't stop. It's time to hunt.

The first time I flew, true flight, I screamed like this. Bruce had to stop me from giving away our positions. Always the secretive one. He touched me on the shoulder and that was the first contact I'd had since they died. Just a simple touch brushing the bones of my shoulder. Didn't even go to the skin. It was wrong but I almost came right there. Just from a touch on the shoulder by the legend known as Batman. I'm disgusting. He squeezed my shoulder and that was enough. The most affection I'd ever gotten from him. And then that grimace-- the face of disgust. He tried to mask it with understanding but my cheeks burned. I was so ashamed. "It's okay, Robin." Always Robin. Never Dick. Always the dark knight, coming to my rescue.


	2. Chapter 2

Roundhouse. Jab. Dodge. Tumble. Thank you dad. Thank you Bruce. Foot to jaw. Fist to chest. The sickening crunch of bone on flesh. The suddenly chirp of humanity in my ear.

"Hello?" My mind goes through the list of who it could be. Barbara. Tim. Bruce. Lovers, friends, colleagues.

"Hello." I hear the cold in the voice, young as it is. Tim. I process: Tim, which voice do i need for Tim? Be cheerful, he needs to be cheered up. He needs you to rescue him. No, he doesn't. Tim was never like that. Tim never needed anybody. I was the only one. The coward. The black sheep of the family. When Kory flew away, i wanted her to need me again. His voice sounds different. I can detect the slight tremor. I raise my vocal chords to emulate concern and happiness.

"Robin, I'm glad it's you. You rang?" Big brother. Good. That's what he needs.

"Dick, I know you're busy. Chirp when you're off patrol." He was insulted. I change my voice to mask the hurt. He doesn't need you. He doesn't need anybody.

"Wait--" I hear myself say it, small and unusual. "You don't have to go. What's going on?" It takes him ages to respond, it seems.

"Nightwing, it's never wise to sacrifice patrol time for civilian issues. It clouds the mind." Shot to the heart. Always so clear-headed. But there's something underneath that voice. I find myself wondering if Tim ever had an eating disorder. No, of course not, I tell myself. I chuckle a bit.

"It's okay, kid. I'm here." Simple. That's all it takes.

"It's just one of those nights." Simple response back, but I know what it means. He's all alone in front of the computer, FBI database open, eyes blank and elsewhere. I wish he could see me nod.

"I'm here." I repeat the words while they're still fresh in my mind. It's delicate, our dance. Dealing with Tim. It has to be just right, like a chemical formula. I can't let him combust. He's quietly contemplating me.

"I miss them," I find myself saying. "My parents, I mean. I'd like to tell you I think about them everyday but i don't. I'm ashamed that I forget sometimes." Why am I talking so much?

"I burned all of their pictures a long time ago, but I still remember their faces. You never stop missing them." God, why did I say all of that. I want to slap myself.

"They would be proud," He says it and i believe him. His voice relieves something inside me. There's a noise behind me. I'd almost forgotten myself. A man with a pipe. No, two men. I tell Tim to hold on. My fist connects with his jaw and it's so easy. Effortless. I almost feel sorry for him.

"Okay, i'm back." I catch my breath quickly and resume previous, more important activities. "Sorry about that." There is a pause as I don't know what to say. "So would your parents." Forbidden territory. .

"Listen, I should try and get some sleep." I'm such an idiot.

"Wai--" I bite my tongue. "Okay. Sleep well." I sigh and hang my head. He's disconnected. He'd never stay, I knew that. I don't know why I thought otherwise. I head home as the sun is about to rise to wash the blood off my knuckles. I didn't even get a chance to say goodbye. I consider taking a detour to his apartment but he'd know. He has a lot of Batman in him, not that I'd ever tell him. He'd get too cocky. I go straight home instead. The air in my apartment is cold and stale. I suppose I should sleep. I strip off my clothes and feel a sudden fever. She doesn't pick up the phone and I didn't expect her too. Barbara... I miss you. I want to say to her, but she's just laugh like the other time. I am pulled out of my thoughts by the sudden phone call. Barbara? No, just the illusions of a lonely man. I pull the sheets over my body and they are cool and relaxing. The fibers prick my skin as I lay awake, knowing none of my bat cohorts can sleep either.

I wake out of a fruitless sleep, a sheen of sweat coats my body. I decide to risk it, to go check on him. I'll wear the mask and maybe in his stupor he won't recognize me. I worry too much. Pulling on the costume, I tell myself I can always say I was sleep walking; no, he's not that gullible. I pull out my grappling hook anyway. I am a phantom lingering outside his window, motionless, invisible. Batman would be proud. I see him laying on his blankets as though paralyzed and for a frightening moment my mind flashes to images of Barbara. I wish to scratch the window but think better of it. I catch my breath and do not move. The tangle of flesh and blankets is moving. Can he see me? No, even he's not that good.

Once at home again, I replay the conversation in my mind as though it was the fight from earlier that night. What could I have done better? Should I call Alfred? No, Tim just found himself without needing anybody's help, like I did. I needed Bruce, Barbara, Alfred. Old men and immobile women. All helped shape this good guy, good boy. I soak up their compliments until I radiate with gold that is not my own. I used to believe I was a vampire because Bruce'd never let me see the light of day. I thought he was worried that i'd burn up, and the training would help me stay alive. Nowadays, I still don't know the truth. I realize the stupidity of it but sometimes I still wonder if i'm undead and that's the reason everybody leaves. Did I come from my mother's womb or my father's bite? No Dick, of course not. Don't be an idiot. But i /am/ a vampire. I am greedy and disgusting. I feed off others and that is why i need them. My face is blue with pulsating veins when I think, though that is only in my mind. I hunger for something. Acceptance. Love. Touch. Touch has always been a problem for me. Garth used to make fun of me for "making it with an alien chick," but he's long since stopped doing that. We don't even talk anymore, really. What do i need from him? From Tim? From Anybody. Certainly not their touch. Nobody can touch me. They'd shudder at the coldness of my skin, the disease plastered along my spine and arms and legs. One touch is all it took. One touch and i'm yours forever. God, I still haven't grown up.


	3. Chapter 3

I go to shave and catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. Sunlight pricks through the holes in my eyes and draws the blue from my irises. I am just a thought punctuated by actions. Drinking. Eating. Fighting. Speaking. Just between thoughts. I grab the phone before I even know what i'm doing. Who did I call? Speedial. Number One. It rings.

"Tim?" My voice is alien. Is this really me?

"Yes." His voice is wave of relief washing over me. It hits me and i drown. I don't even know what I called. What to say.

"I, Uh... sorry, I don't even know why I'm calling. Didn't mean to bother you, little brother." I sound so stupid. This is almost how i used to behave around Barbara. What does that mean? I'll contemplate it later. Right now I have to focus on weaving around the minefield that is a conversation with Tim Drake.

"That's fine. I called you spontaneously many a time. Good timing, though." Dodged a bullet. My hands start to sweat and I'm not sure why.

"Why's that?" Good. A question. The easy part.

"Well, in light of recent discoveries that I do, in fact, eat like a human. I also sleep and wake up like a human too--I'm sure you'll be putting that in your files later." This boy is crazy. He's two different people. I feel the relief wash over me again. Sometimes I think he's the man and i'm the teenager.

"Actually, my files on you go much more in depth than that already," I laughed. The corners of my mouth cracked and bled a bit. No more smiling for me, I made a mental note.

"What else do you know?" I could hear him tensing with immediate suspicion. I fought the urge to mess with his mind.

"It was a joke, Timmy." I say, flat and blunt. The kid understands flat and blunt. I realize i sound a bit harsh and compose myself. "I should go," I bite my lip. Please ask me to stay. Please ask me to stay. Tell me you need me. Somebody need me. I pray silently to the gods of teenage boy wonders. There is a pause as I wait to see if my murmurings have been heard by divine forces. I pace around my apartment, and a thumb tack pierces my foot. I wince but make no sound. I have to vacuum soon. He ignores my previous statement.

"Oh...Jokes. I've been talking to myself so often I forgot what those were." At least he's still here. Why do I want him here? I ask myself.

"More like Bruce everyday," I shake my head. "Are you alright?"

"i'm doing better today" comes the short reply. I sigh. What else should I have expected?

"I'm glad to hear that" I force a smile though I know he can't see it. What do I really want to say? I mull this over for a moment, picking lint off a sweater Babs gave me for Christmas last year. Blue to match my eyes, she said. "you busy today?" I found myself asking for no apparent reason. God, i closed my eyes. I must be going crazy. Still need to shave.

"After I find my pants, I'm pretty much free." He's distracted. My eyebrow raises naturally, a bad habit. Makes me look too much like Bruce. I try to be funny.

"Your pants, huh? Crazy night last night?" The questions come before I can stop myself. Idiot. His girlfriend just died. Idiot. I fight the urge to simply hang up. I grab an apple and pierce its skin. My teeth create a resounding crunch as I mangle the apple, hoping it'll act as a deterrent to keep me from further being a dick. Ha, very funny, Rich. I'm such an idiot.

"Crazy, indeed. I'm so lucky to be ambidextrous." I have a mental image of him touching himself, a soft moan upon his lips. My body gives a slight jerk. I shake my head. Christ, I really am going crazy.

"You sound good. it's been a while." I laugh at his joke. He really can be quite funny when he wants to be. "But we both know that can be deceiving. I don't suppose you'd want to-- never mind."

"Want to--?" He caught my previous statement. Damn it. I pace some more. I hear a zipping sound and assume he's putting on his pants. One leg at a time like all of us. Boy Wonder indeed. I think about the fibers making contact with the sparse hair on his legs. Shaving, yes. Damn it.

"It's nothing." My voice is small and unusual.

" Dick...I'm not even the world's greatest detective, and I can tell there's something heavy on your shoulders. And why you're afraid of my responses well, that's beyond me." God, he's afraid I don't like him. He's afraid. I hoped he didn't feel that emotion. I knew he did.

My voice is smooth and reassuring. "I'm not afraid of you, little brother. Never have been." I just want him to know he's not alone. Crazy false hopes spinning around in my mind. I wouldn't be the one to save him. I devour the apple with satisfaction.

"I haven't been out of the house all week." this is startlingly straight forward. We're playing a game, aren't we, little brother? I wanted him to ask me if I was busy. I wanted something from him. He wouldn't do that. I lost the game.

"Would you like to come over?" I took the plunge, I answered the question he was not able to ask. The static in my rug sent electricity to my fingertips and I shivered far too loudly.

"Yeah, only if you buy some pizza--I've been starving on this health food for far too long, I've already lost what was left of my natural bulk," I laughed. What bulk? The child was starving before he met Bruce and now he's starving with straining muscles and i see them from beneath his skin. I even see his knots, the shoulders that tense not only as he's about to jump from 20 stories. The kid really is amazing. My hands itch to knead them out.

"Alright boy wonder. Just this once. But no pepperoni." I smiled. I stretched and mentally counted my ribs. I needed to know each one was there, as though God would reach down in the middle of the night and steal one to make a woman for me. I wouldn't even stop him. That's my job though, isn't it? To stop the robbers and the thugs and the super villains. I suppose I would stop God after all.

"So, what time?" I mused to myself about how much this was sounding like dating back in high school.

"Anytime you want. I just have to shave and get myself all pretty for you." I teased. I froze, wondering how he'd take it. Laughter. I sighed with relief, though I knew it was partially forced on Tim's part.

"I'm going to go out on a limb and say Six Thirty." I nodded.

"That's fine. I'll see you then."

"Okay" came the monosyllabic reply. I hated ending phone conversations. Awkward pauses make me cringe. I still needed to shower. I must smell terribly. I heard him make a strange muffled sound, much resembling a groan, and then some uncomfortable shifting.

"Well, I don't want to keep you any longer, Tim. My door's always open to you. I'll be waiting." My voice was a bit lower and huskier than I'd intended. I ponder this as I hang up and immediately began to analyze the conversation. There are bags under my eyes as I look in the mirror. Do I really look this bad? The shirt slides over my head easily and I toss it aside, giving it a slight sniff before deeming it unfit. Boxers come next. Red satin. Babs would say they were kinky. Not that she would know. Barbara… we never had a chance to-I wish I could break my own legs and trade her. I know a few magicians that could help out (if I forced them), but she'd never agree. At least then her legs would work and I could be the one in the wheelchair. She would tell me I was being a martyr. I step into the scalding water and think what it'd be like if our positions were reversed. Would I be able to handle never walking again, never fighting again? My eyes widened with panic as they took in the thought of never being able to fly again, to plunge from a building straight at the concrete below and never give it a second thought. I picture Barbara up and walking and me in the chair. I picture her legs in a pencil skirt and groan. I'm embarrassed at my body's reactions as my flesh twitches, but my mind cannot help wandering to a dark place, the place I wouldn't talk about. The place where Barbara is riding me and all I have to do is sit back and moan. At least there are still advantages to the chair. I'm so sick. I splatter the shower walls with a small cry of frustration and disgust at myself and punch the wall. It doesn't even hurt.


	4. Chapter 4

Water is versatile in my hand. It drips off the end of my fingers and for a moment I pretend I have superpowers. Real superpowers. That I'm not just a super-dork, super all-American, as some would say. At least I don't have it as bad as Clark. Now there's an all-American. Kansas boy. At least he has parents. I sigh. The water washes my face clean of traces of shame and tears. I will be cleansed and purified for my little brother. I still have to order pizza.

I was reading when the doorbell rang. My ears perked up in surprise. Who do I know that uses a door? Perhaps one of the tenants… I sighed and considered not answering. I didn't really want to be bothered by the balding men or desperate women with babies who knocked on my door, asking me to watch their children, which I always did. I'd never tell Bruce-he'd make fun of me forever. I wasn't making any noise, so I don't see why they'd be knocking. I trudged over to the door, making sure to check first that I was wearing pants. Wouldn't want a repeat of last week. Sometimes when the eldest of my tenants knocks on the door, I see her lovely veined neck with the soft dangling skin and wonder how it'd feel to sink my teeth into that; to hear the soft moan of age and drink the blood from her body, embracing my vampiric roots. I almost groaned when she left, but regained my composure. I'm disgusting. I wanted to make love to that old woman as though she was the most beautiful woman on earth. For a moment, she was, too. I ran my hands through my thick black hair. It was a trait in the bat family, almost as though inherited. More proof that we were all estranged brothers somehow and really did share the same blood. I suppose that's why Jason was pressured into dying his hair. I never really liked redheads anyway.

I reach the door and pull it open before the person even has a chance to knock. To my surprise, I found Tim there, arm raised, pupils dilated with shock. He put his arm down and my shoulders relaxed as some inner being of mine released the tension that came with acknowledging that this was not a threat. My mind thought to briefly register his facial expression: gaunt, surprised, and ashamed at his surprise. This made me smile. I hoped it seemed warm and welcoming. He seemed to accept this and stepped in, a bit hesitantly, assessing my apartment as though staking it out for potential crimes. I informed him about the pizza situation in a low voice, eyes roaming over his body, looking for flaws, changes. Ignoring the sudden desire that came up as my body pulsated on its own, seeing the way his legs tapered from his slim torso in a combination of jungle beauty and steel muscular strength. I had forgotten my place as a host, and quickly offered him a seat. My sensitive nostrils were assaulted with a new scent. I'd smelled it sporadically on him before.

"You smell like sex." The words came frankly and honestly. My little brother. I could talk to him like this, the way it never was with Jason. I could never show him any affection, nor tell him about the dark parts of me. I couldn't reveal those to Tim either, but at least it was better than with Jason. He distanced himself from the rest of us bats, focusing only on Bruce. And Bruce gave him the same treatment back, certainly not lavishing attention on him yet he did, in a subtle way that only Bruce could do it. He'd touched Jason's shoulder many times, simply as a gesture. But that simple brushing of glove on skin was enough to drive me to Hell and back. It culminated one night as I walked past Jason's room in the manor. I was visiting for Christmas and decided to spend the night. He was not in his room. I didn't need to circle the manor to know where he was. I heard the sounds. My body cringed and drew back, discovering the true jealousy and carnal desire within it. I was disgusted. It's a natural feeling for me, I suppose.

"I don't know how that could be, Dick. I haven't had sex." His words pierced my thoughts and I was grateful.

"I don't know, Tim. But you do." I sat on the couch, glad for a break from the thoughts that plagued me. "Don't be embarrassed" I tried to reassure the boy as he sat uncomfortably. I watched as a strand of straight dark hair fell upon his face like a raven's plume.

"What got you so deep in though just then?" His question barely registered and I seemed to step outside of myself. I saw my hand reach for his face, barely brushing his skin, pushing the hair out of his eyes. They were the same blue as mine. I never thought I'd meet somebody with the same eyes as mine. "Dick, are you okay?" what was that? Oh, concern! He was worried about my. My hand jolted back immediately, and I thanked the bats for my reflexes.

"Yes, of course. I'm fine." I shook my head and focused on the wall behind him instead. "I was just thinking about Jason." I bite my tongue. Why had I divulged that? It brought back the memory of that night when I ran out of the manor from between the panels of Bruce's door, trying to erasing the memories of scent and noise and especially sight with the rain trickling down my face.

"What about Jason?" he asked. I stared at him for a moment, searching his eyes, trying to find a trace of deceit or ill intent in his face. There was none, yet I continued to stare, realizing how very much he resembled and imp, pointed face and pointed noise, the soft straggling hair contrasting the sharpness of the rest of his features. I smiled despite myself and leaned a bit closer unconsciously. Should I tell him?

"You never knew him like I did. I never knew him like Bruce did." I hoped that would answer his question. His curious nature wouldn't allow him to leave it at that. I pulled away once more.

"How did Bruce know him?" I sighed and bit my lip. How? Too well, I wanted to scream. Better than he knew me and I was there first! Jason was the real boy wonder. Favored. Beautiful. I left soon after that night. Still, how do I respond?

"Intimately." Was all I could muster. His face did not register understanding as I'd hoped. He leaned in, and I ran my hands through my thick hair, marveling at how much of it was left considering the stress I'd endured through the years. Truthfully my mind drifted to a sword swallower I saw at the circus when I was younger. The man engulfed steel and death and seemed incomparably superhuman. Nowadays I know people who can turn that sword to dust. Getting older is disillusioning and I wish I were still amazed by that man.

"Dick. To interpret that correctly I should be inside of your mind." He spurned me out of my thoughts yet again.

"Jason was the golden child. The perfect boy who'd snap at any moment." A slight sneer crept upon my features and I tried to eradicate the resentment in my voice. I contemplated putting my hand on Tim's shoulder. Would that be different than Bruce putting his hand on my shoulder? Bruce putting his hand on Jason's shoulder? What's the difference, really? Would I be like Bruce, then? I don't want that. "Bruce loved him" my voice was soft and hesitant, as if admitting it to myself for the first time. Then Tim did something I did not expect. He put his hand on my shoulder. A simple gesture, warm and reassuring. I almost laughed. I would've, if I didn't think I would spit acid. I looked at him with hollow eyes. Is this what I should've done to Bruce? The touch was soothing and scalding at the same time. I shivered as a tingle went from my spine to the tips of my toes. Is this how it felt, Bruce? I wondered silently. The boy in front of me shifted uncomfortably, but his hand remained there. I gave him a weak smile.

"More than he loved me." It fell from my lips in a barely audible whisper, but I knew he heard me. I should not have let this happen, this conversation. Nobody else knew. What kind of weight had I handed to this young boy? What kind of indecision and indescribable agony at seeing his beloved mentor's image come crumbling down around him. I winced involuntarily at the thought. As I watched his face for signs of reaction, the warm hand fell from my form and I was left alone once more. I saw in his eyes the same reassuring care I'd found in his touch. My mind reeled with surprise at the difference between his heart and his mind, his façade and the warmth of his fingertips. There is no shivering of cold as he looks at me with the sincerest of care. My hands stroke his cheek gently, briefly, involuntarily before pulling away quickly, embarrassed. My mind wanders to thoughts of Jason and Bruce, tangled in the dark depths of the innumerable bedroom that always crawled with monsters for me. But Jason had found something other than creatures in that darkness. He'd found the very thing I'd always been looking for and I resented the boy completely. I looked down as the doorbell rang, seeing Tim twitch with surprise. I smiled inwardly, enjoying that he could be surprised. I leaned forward, whispering in his ear: "I don't love Bruce." And with that I got up and answered the door, grabbing my wallet. Pizza. $17. Plus tip. That was the price of getting Tim to my apartment. I sighed with the sadness of that fact.


	5. Chapter 5

He leans forward and practically devours the pizza the minute I set the box on the table. I sit, watching, amused. I can practically see him drooling. He must really not be used to health food. I munch on an apple. We'll get pepperoni next time, I make a mental note. There is a piece of lint in Tim's hair. I frown. My boy wonder was supposed to be clean, perfect, lint-free-- /my/ boy wonder? I was going insane. I meant mine because, because he was the robin I helped train. Human beings are wonderful creatures because we can come up with reasons for everything. I wondered for a moment if Kory could rationalize like I could. I reached forward and extract the invader from the otherwise perfect locks. He flinches and I throw the lint away. Ah, perfect once more. I looked at the pizza. The boy had eaten all but two pieces. I was impressed. I had the urge to-- no, I couldn't! But my hands were ahead of my brain and I had the second piece halfway down my throat before Tim could blink. He just stared at me. "Tell nobody" I growled, feeling much like Batman, and finished the piece.

"I knew you'd give in. It was inevitable as soon as your nostrils flared when you went to the door. I expected more of you, Dick-san." The cocky bastard. I had to smirk, however. I flashed this trademark debonair facial expression at him, thinking about how it melted the hearts of many women. And Garth too. My mind mocked me, thinking back to my younger days as a sexually confused titan. The way our awkward hands fumbled together, fingertips brushing in the dark of my room littered with newspapers. We were just kids then. My eyes closed at the memory. The pizza burned my throat and I grimaced, cursing my earlier instincts to stay away from the stuff. My body had failed me. And there was still the matter of setting Tim in his place. At least he seemed to be something less than dead, which is rare. I flashed him a warm smile.

"I regret it greatly, sensei." My grin faded and I regressed back into my thoughts and memories. Tim stared at the TV. When had that turned on? I pondered my nostalgia. Is it normal to remember so often, so much? That is all we have to cause us pain-our memories. If I had amnesia, I would be okay. Retrograde amnesia, not Anterograde, I correct my mind. Would I really be okay? I don't want to remember my name. I've just gotten used to it, really. Not hating it. Dick. Dick. So vulgar when anybody says it. It pulsed upon Garth's lips when I touched him. "Dick... Dick… oh Dick," I hoped he meant me. I loved that he spoke to me and not to Robin. Robin. Dick. Nightwing. I'm all of them. Batman-well, I was never really Batman. That name was most vulgar of all and I suddenly replaced my name with "batman" in the mouth of the memory. "Bruce…" he moaned, and my mind flashed to Jason and Bruce. Oh no. Amnesia. There never was a Jason and Bruce. Dick and Garth. Dick in Garth. Ew, Richard. You're disgusting. Vulgar. It comes with the territory. My body tensed for a minute as I wondered if Tim could somehow read my mind, see how sick I really was. Sheer panic wracked my nervous system as my pupils dilated and looked at him. I shook my head-that was stupid. Tim can't read minds.

"Dick?" The question didn't register. I kept looking at him, this pure boy in front of me, and my mind immediately began to think of ways to make him dirty. I'm sick, disgusting. Dick. Dick. Dick. Do you hear yourself? This boy is not meant to be soiled, but I want to. I shouldn't want to. I don't, really. There is a smudge on his shirt. Looks like blood. Smells like blood. I lick my fingertips and rub the cotton. He couldn't wash this out. What the fuck am I doing? He's staring at me. I lick my fingertips. Oh god. I shook myself out of my coma.

"Yes?" He stared at me. I braced myself for the next question.

"Uh. How many people have you been with?" I just blinked a few times. My instincts were to answer frankly. I had to count. How many people… Should I count Barbara? I wanted to so badly. It really wasn't that many. Did he mean kissing or sex or everything in between? I decided to assume.

"Sexually? Three." My pulse began to race recalling these memories. Blood rushed to the surface of my skin in what I'm sure was an unsightly blush. I was glad I was wearing sweatpants that day. The clock seemed to tick so loudly it deafened me. It was just the blood pumping in my ears, I realized. Warm sweaty bodies tangled with mine. The taste of skin. Metal. Copper. Blood. She'd liked it rough. I shifted to accommodate my growing flesh, and the friction of the fabric brushing my thigh elicited a muffled moan of pleasure from my lips.

"How many people have you wanted to be with?" Hmm. I didn't know how to respond. Who did I want to be with? Such a long list, from the people whose names I don't even know. I pass them on the street. Their faces flash briefly in my mind. I hesitate.

"I'm not sure. More than three." He looks away from me, disappointed. I'm relieved, because then he cannot see my arousal. I sigh.

"I'm not sure I'll be with anybody sexually anymore, Tim. No point in dreaming." I smile at him, though the pressure in my lower half is almost painful now. Images flash through my mind. Bruce. Garth. Kory. Barbara. I shudder a bit. I hope he doesn't notice this, but I know that is too much to hope for.

"You're only Twenty-Four. Don't be insane." I ponder this. Am I really so young? It seems like I've survived hundreds of years and I am Dante coming out of the caves of Hell. I read too much. My groan reverberates off my walls. Damn my good acoustics.

"I'm also a Batboy." I make my point simply. He'll understand, I'm sure. The mask makes age irrelevant. Babs couldn't see past it. She does not wear a mask any longer. Kory never wore a mask. She was never ashamed of who she was. Perhaps it was me who needed her. My lovers were unmasked in my mind, one by one, and I saw parts of myself, parts I hated, in them. I saw their strengths and my weaknesses. My eyes moistened and I grew angry. I cannot cry. Batboys don't cry. Not in front of Tim. I didn't even cry the night they died. And yet I cannot help my arousal. God. Sick.

"Dick, I've never been with anybody. Are you telling me I'm doomed to forever be alone? We're both batboys here." His voice shatters my thoughts. I shake my head in disbelief. This beautiful Adonis sat here beside me, thinking he would never sin. He would never know the pleasures of the flesh. Worse, that he would forever be alone. I was torn between laughing and sobbing. I turn to him, and my hand goes immediately to his shoulder. The jolt of warmth coming from his skin is startling. It revitalizes me and I finally realize why Bruce does this so often.

"Tim… no. That isn't it at all. You will never be alone. I'll always be here." It sounds so fake, so boyish and after-school special-like, but it's all true. I squeeze his shoulder as if to reaffirm my statement. "I'm yours," I add, without meaning to. What did that mean? His dark t-shirt brought out the plume of his hair. His shampoo was new, I could tell. His… I meant that I'd always be there for him, I'd always go to him first. I would rescue him and fulfill my destiny and Richard Grayson. The mantle would not help this time. I don't want it to.

He doesn't say anything. In fact, he doesn't do anything except put his hand on my own. The hand resting on his shoulder. There is a jolt as his skin comes in contact with my own and I breathe and sigh of relief, as though for once I am not alone in this apartment. We sit in quiet but we are not millions of miles away. We are on the same planet. It slips from my lips before I can stop it. I really am an idiot.

"You're mine, too." the words seem to come from my own mouth. I felt my lips move as I said them, but i don't remember thinking it. I don't' know why I said it. My inner bird panics and longs to fly. I bite my lip instead, to keep the useless flaps of flesh from revealing anything else.

"Besides, Dick," He begins, and I know he will ignore my previous statement. "You don't really expect to never lure another woman into your bed. You have champagne in the wine rack under your coffee table. Speaking of champagne, you never offered me one of your creepy health-drinks and I'm about to start reciting Rime of the Ancient Mariner." I raised an eyebrow, mustering a short laugh.

"I'd like to watch you suck the blood from your arm before I quench your thirst, little brother. I do not /lure/ women, Tim. I simply smile and they are mine." There, a bit of arrogance to smooth things over. My hand is caressing his back, putting us into sync. He's so warm, and I can't help being in awe at this.

"Thank you for letting me visit." The phrase was so sweet and simple, so unlike him, I almost laughed. He stood up and awkwardly put an arm around my back. I sniffed his neck. I almost pulled him closer but thought better of it. He headed to the fridge-I wondered what he wanted to find in there. My secret ice cream was all the way on the other floor. I snickered secretly to myself. I venture out onto the limb. This is where I've never been with anybody. Territory. Tim and I have a sweet intimacy about our movement. It isn't awkward. It is natural.

"Would you like some champagne, Tim? We can celebrate." I wait for the inevitable question.

"Celebrate What, Dick?" I've never had champagne." I smirk, large and uninhibited. I want him to squirm. I stand and walk over to where he is lingering in the spotless kitchen. My fingernails scratch away a bit of dirt on the countertop. My lips float close to his ear

"Us. Being Together." I move gracefully to the necessary drawer and pulled out a bottle opener. He stiffened, just as I wanted him to. What is going on with the mechanisms of that brilliant brain of his? What does he think he's figured out? I don't even know what's going on. I watch him, the slight tremble in his body. I knew how it felt to have hot, wanting breath on your ear. Was it wanting? What did I want? I wanted to ask him what he thought of men, what he thought of sex, of women. I knew what he thought. He wasn't Bruce nor Jason. He was just Tim, a little scared boy trapped in my kitchen under the bright lights that sting his eyes. This poor child needs to get out more.

"Dick, don't play around--" I twirl around and stare at him, seeing his breath quicken, his pupils dilate. "I don't know how well I do with alcohol." Little boy pleas. I want to click my teeth, I wish to snap. I pull a bottle out from under the table. How did he know I kept it there? I uncork the bottle carefully, not daring to spill any on my beautiful cold wooden floor.

"Don't worry, I won't hurt you. I'll take care of you." I pour him the tiniest bit in a clear, clean glass with a long stem. I am dazzled by the flowering of it, and think how it used to be simple sand. Would I ever turn to glass? I shook my head. No, Dick. Don't be crazy. The bubbles fill my nose from here. Curse my sensitivity. He comes up behind me and I hand him the glass. He's so nervous, his body fights the urge to tremble. I chuckle. I think of old black and white movies. Then you can swallow it, see? And it would dissolve and moonbeams would shoot out your fingers and toes and out the ends of your hair…Babs used to tell me I was romantic like that. I poured myself a small glass. Tim needed something from me. Reassurance. I smiled at him, warmth spitting from between my lips, from the deep recesses of my throat.

"I've asked you so many questions, why don't you interrogate for a while?" He tries to take the focus from the situation, the lights, and the whole process. I turn to him, grab his chin and force him to look at me. I am gentle yet firm, something Alfred taught me. Bruce was never really very good with gentle.

"Why are you so interested in my sex life, little brother?" My thumb brushes his soft skin and I am pricked with the beginnings of stubble. He just began to shave, I could tell. I chuckled. His eyes grew wide with something like panic and I drank this in. I knew he wasn't really scared, just startled. I didn't worry.

"I'm not interested in your sex life in particular. I've just been contemplating the importance of sex over an extended period of time and required the insight of an older, more experienced gentleman such as yourself; and I asked so many questions, two I believe, because you are so stiff with your information and you tend to keep it very well hidden." He pauses to take a breath. "However, I've learned little because you've exposed little..." My lips are close to his jaw line. I take him in. I wonder if this is the Robin Bruce dreamed of. Will he be the perfect one or will there be others? His skin is flawless, lucky bastard. How many scars does he have already? I think of my own gnarled body. What woman would want me now?

"How much do you want me to expose, Tim?" my voice is low and un-intimidating.

"Sex is… good with the right person. Sex is necessary to release stress sometimes, otherwise undo… tension builds up." I emphasize the word to see him squirm more. I get off on it. God, help me. I do.

"Did Bruce do this to you?" The question comes like a cold blow to the chest. He's closed up again. I stagger backward, stung. I look at him, hurt clouding my vision, before composing myself and putting down the glass of champagne. The sun is low in the clouds, and i watch the red sky penetrate them. They bleed with the same wounds as I do. I clench my fists until the skin bleeds. Great, more scars. I ponder opening the window and simply jumping out. No, I wouldn't even die. I would catch myself with my acrobatic reflexes. My breathing comes in ragged breaths before I even notice it is so. I bite my lip to secure the repertory malfunctions and taste hot blood on my tongue. Is Tim still here? Probably not. I hear something behind me but it's all white noise.

"Dick, just, don't touch me u-unless you know it's okay. You know my guard is down. You know how much I trust you. Dick?" I stare at him with gaunt eyes, blank, looking him over, trying to assess the reason his cheeks are so flushed and his pants are so-oh god. Not this. This is what gets me into trouble.

"I'm sorry" the two words assault my ears and I hunch over, as though in pain. The words echo over and over in my mind. Did Bruce do this to you? Don't touch me. I look at my hands, strange and alien like poisonous snakes. I grope around blindly for something to cut them off with. A disappointed noise gets caught in my throat as I find nothing. I sink to my knees and contemplate the whirl of faces trapped in my mind. Once I tried to take a drill to my temple in an attempt to carve the images out. Red hair, so much red hair. His is black. It could never work. I hate you Bruce. I look at Tim, wounded, helpless. How could I let him see me like this? God, Dick. You're such a fucking coward.


	6. Chapter 6

I'm vaguely aware of somebody's arms around me, dragging me to the bathroom, before my face is splattered with cold. I cough and shiver. I look at Tim-he's panicked. There are traces on my back where his hands stroked my flesh; I can feel the red raw welts beginning to form. I bite my lip hard and deep, gushing blood into my mouth. I spit the red substance into the sink, licking my lips. Must keep clean. Can't be dirty. Oh, Dick. You're already so dirty. Tim's eyes are small and panic stricken. I smile weakly at him.

"Don't worry little brother," I whisper. My hands ache to wrap themselves around his broken form in a hug, but I draw back as I remember his earlier warning. He arms twisted themselves around me, and I let him cradle me, pushing out my thoughts.

"Just hold on, I'll get help." No, I whisper. I don't need anybody. My tongue is swollen in my mouth and I cannot speak.

"No, Tim… I'm okay, really." He must think I'm insane, and he wouldn't be wrong. He must… he'll never come over again. His scent is warm and comforting. I shift in his grasp and close my eyes before pulling away. I'm okay, I repeat.

"I'm okay." My eyes flutter open and closed, blue windows into my blue soul. Does that make me a sad soul? "It just surprised me, that's all. What you said. It overwhelmed me and my body just failed me. I'm sorry I scared you."

"Dick, let me take you to your bed. You should lie down and you need some water. I'll stay the night to watch you. You don't have a choice. I won't tell B--Barbara." I look at him, wrenching myself from his grasp. I want to be fine, I want to be his savior and deliver him from this situation.

"It's okay. I'm fine." I stand up; walk around to prove my point. "You never should've seen that. I'm sorry. It wasn't your fault." Everything a good guy should say. Someday when I'm old I'll tell the truth. Tim, do you remember that time you cut my heart open-how did you know how to hurt me? But I know how. It was part of your training, part of what you devoted precious hours of your life to trying to become. I was never good at that part, I didn't like causing that kind of pain. Physical wounds are shallow, and I am too much of a coward to slice where it hurts deeper, as Bruce and Tim and Barbara all know how to do. Jason too. Even fiery, short-lived Jason was better than me. Did Bruce touch you like this too? No Tim, he didn't. He never even really looked at me. I was never the one he touched like that yet always the one who wanted to be touched.

Well you can take your bats and your forsaken little boys with blue eyes, God, and leave me be, leave me in peace. There is not even peace in my mind anymore, though it is vacant and lonely in the recesses between my temples and my mane of hair. Tim is attempting to be my hero now. It is not really such an intense role reversal, though he may perceive it to be such. Tim, you were always the one to save me, the one I was waiting for. You pulled me out of loneliness. My mouth shudders at the thought of spilling these few precious words I've left out onto the rug before the bewildered boy. His hands tremble slightly as he escorts me about, attending to me, insisting I rest. My eyebrows curve into a natural frown as I am not used to being treated like this, with such soft concern, such slim hands. Surely he does not see me as small. Surely he cannot see that deep. I close my eyes, having half-collapsed, half been pushed onto the soft fibers of the couch and for a minute I hail myself as to having chosen such a comfortable, attractive piece of furniture. If only you had the same taste in mates, Dick. Or partners for that matter. But I cannot blame Bruce; his methods did me well, they hardened me into a man. If it wasn't for Bruce, I may have taken a lesson from Peter Pan and never grown up. They all think that when you lose your parents, it forces you to grow up so quickly but the opposite is true. People all around fawn on you and the only choice is to retreat back to the safe hollow space you've reserved in your mind for all the future experiences you would've had with your loving parents before their lives were unmercifully snuffed out. But Bruce left me no hollow places, nor did he fill them with affection and caring. He always understood, however, and perhaps that's what was most important to me. Is. He filled up the emptiness in me with desires: to train more, to learn more, to feel more, to be better. To get revenge. It was not Bruce's intention to turn me into a creature of empathy and emotion: quite the opposite. But he inadvertently led me to crave humanity as though it were a very dangerous drug. I began to believe that human beings were like small packets of life, the honey begging to be sucked from their shells and then discarded. Bruce was, at that point, something far beyond humanity. His skin was sour and coarse, but it needed to be so, and I could not understand why he needed to protect himself from such soft creatures that were obviously beneath him. Until Jason died and everything changed.

I close my eyes, deciding it best to feign sleep, or at last mediate to relax a bit. I slowed my breathing as Bruce taught me to, trying to rid my mind of the demons clawing at its edges but it's useless. Better to just embrace them and let them tear me apart until there is nothing left to worry about. My breathing becomes even and soft. Scent floats to my nostrils as I make a mental map of my apartment and the creatures it in only from smell. Tim smells faintly of aftershave, fresh laundry, and arousal. My nose wrinkles at the interesting combination, and I lick my lips, trying to grasp precious moisture and retain it in the petals of skin that flutter slightly with my breath. My mind floats to the previous night and I cringe internally.

"Get over it, Dick. " Her blue eyes peered at me through resentful slits. We all had blue eyes.

"He was standing there, in front of Jason's old costume… the shrine… and he /flinched/ Barbara. He flinched when I tried to comfort him."

"I'm tired of you doing this, Dick. I'm tired of hearing it. It's been years and you still can't get over the fact that he chose Jason over you. He chose Tim over you. He chose everyone over you. He chose /me/ over you." The last phrase came stumbling hastily from her mouth before she could get a hold of it.

"…You? Barbara?" I looked at her with wide eyes. I must've looked so idiotic, and I may have cared if she hadn't thought me to be a complete moron already. Coward. Weakling. Still nursing the same old emotional wounds that they all thought were taken care of. No, which they knew were still there and chose to ignore. Bruce and Barbara? I didn't look back at her as I jumped from the window, praying the wind would somehow pierce my mould and I would turn to dust and be carried away.

The corners of my mouth were undoubtedly turned downward as the memory seeped into the crevices of my mind and poisoned my frontal lobes, both hemispheres, and partially paralyzed me. Now we've something in common, Babs, I told myself bitterly. To the outside world, my form must've looked simply like a stiff sleep, though I'm sure Tim registered the slightest change in my body. I tried not to shift or move at all as my mind relaxed and allowed the poisonous fumes of nostalgia to lull it to sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

Sunlight crept into the apartment and began to stroke my cheek with its warm spider webbed fingers of gossamer thread. My eyes were the first things to open, darting wildly from side to side, taking in my surroundings. He was still here, the small raven boy, slumped over on the coffee table. He never had a chance. The rush of last night's events hit me hard as the assault of smells and memories overwhelmed me and I had to close my eyes again momentarily, composing myself. My hands found their way to my face, allowing me to bury myself in the security of the only person who'd ever truly been there for me. The only person I ever allowed inside. Tim was still sleeping as I wandered over to the bathroom, but not before lifting him up (he was surprisingly light) and carrying him to the warm indentation I'd left in the cushions of the couch, draping a blanket over his shivering body. The man who gazed back at me from the mirror was hollow, eyes moist but not for wont of sleep. Each tear was a separate event in my life. One for mother, one for father. One for Bruce and Barbara and Kory. Even one for Jason. One for Tim. Then they stopped. I wiped these fluid people from my cheek and immediately they were gone and all that was left was the damage and the reflection. The hot streams of liquid had borne what seemed like trails, tunnels in my cheek where they had danced in wayward zigzags before falling off the end of my face into oblivion like their human counterparts. Why had I been so open, I wondered. So blunt, so forward, so everything I'm not. How could you fail me, I demanded of my body when recollecting the way it had collapsed the previous night. How will I ever live this down?

My feet make unfamiliar lines across the rug as I shuffle to the living room. The living room where all is quiet and a young boy is dead on my couch. No, not dead. Merely asleep, waiting for princess charming to give him the kiss of life so they can live happily ever after. I sigh. Tim moans and rolls over in his sleep, and I freeze, not wanting him to wake up and intrude on my somehow private moment. He doesn't wake and I sigh. Sunlight dances upon his straining shoulders and weaves its way through his hair. Even in his sleep, his body looks as though it is ready to pounce, sleek and intense. I scan his t-shirt for the hard, severe lines of deep definition I know are hidden behind the soft fabric. My hand lingers upon the arm of the couch, wishing to lift up his shirt and count the ribs I hope are there. My secret hope goes beyond that. It extends to the hope that his bones are all there, all intact. That God has not stolen from him in the middle of the night and made a perfect woman for him. I will not let myself be torn away yet. I am selfish, I am petty, I am cruel. I do not explore any further. The thick shadow of his lash cuts lines across his otherwise unmarred face and I wonder how long it will be until it is disfigured, or worse; until the flesh rots beneath the ground with the rest of my friends and loyalties. In this light, the pallor of Tim's skin is softened to a golden glow. I marvel at how peaceful he looks and long to join him deep in the aches of my bones.

I touch my own chest, and for some reason my fingertips don't hear the heartbeat underneath. Oh wait, that's right, fingers can't hear, Dick. You're such a… Yeah I know. Ha, funny. No, not funny. Overused. You're not funny, Dick. I have to stop talking to myself. Oh-Tim has woken up. His eyelids fluttered first and I could tell he was trying to assess the room blindly, perhaps trying to tune his other senses further. I perch on the leg of the couch and wait and watch like a silent animal of the night. I can only hope the blood from my wounds of the other night is clean for Tim is also a nocturnal predator but he is far stronger than I and I fear he would devour me if he smelled blood in the water. His eyes search my face, and I tilt my head naturally, questioning his movements. He has never held my gaze this long. I hold my breath and dare not break away.

I wanted him to be the first to look away. I wanted to grab a chicken bone or one of the saber cat claws I keep hidden in my bedroom and pierce his ear, unlock the secrets of his mind. What is he thinking of? He pulls back into the couch and allows it to engulf him like Jonah and the whale. I almost reach out to save him. Say something, little brother. I will just keep watching you until my eyes melt from my head. I give up, I give in, call it what you want. Typical Dick.

"Good morning." I try to keep my voice neutral, soft and low, as to not frighten the young buck. His eyes always seem so wide, like disco balls sparkling dreams in the bright morning light. He's here, Tim's here. In my House. My veins give a momentary skip of panic as my heart jumps in my chest. He is such a young boy, making awkward young boy movements. Jolting hand. Tufty hair. Smooth it back then put arm back on self before realizing the sleep drifting into one's deep blue eyes. Oh. Why doesn't one wish to go back to sleep, I silently wonder. Warm up the throat muscles; learn to speak once more after eons in a cocoon of silence. I wonder if Tim ever really knew how to speak. Perhaps I could teach him, perhaps, if he let me, I could draw him out of the cave of his wolfish nightmares. Perhaps...

"Good morning," he cracks. I cannot help but smile. "How are you feeling?" Of course, the inevitable question. How /am/ I feeling? Gee Dick, why didn't you think about this earlier? The demons in my head-is that bad? No, that's normal. You're so fucked up. Normal. I go with the safe response. Sicken crack of bones, popping of nitrogen bubbles. I do not shudder.

"I'm alright." Signature warm smile. I ruffle his hair, not being able to help my itching hands. Why do I touch him so often? I have to stop touching him. He told me not to touch him. Did he have nightmares about the other night? My sleep was blank and fruitless as always. Thank Bats for my stamina otherwise I probably would not be able to get through the day on the amount of REM I get. Air pressure dropping. Suddenly it's unnervingly quiet and I can hear the faint buzzing of electrical equipment in my home, echoing through the entire building.

He doesn't speak again and I don't expect him to. We simply watch each other in the little dance we do, more graceful even than the Russian Ballet. His movements have a clunking awkward stamina about them, something enthralling and dangerous like a tightrope walker without a safety net. I always walk with my guard up, net all around me. Tim doesn't do that, and I admire him. His walls are elsewhere, put up around his glazed eyes. Sometimes I watch him peel the mask, rarely, from his face. The whitened pupils don't seem to change, as he is blank. Expressionless. Gaunt. Waiting for somebody to come splatter some trace of emotion onto the marble and slate with pain or disaster or fear. Tim responds to those. I wonder what color he is underneath the cold blue. We are all raw beneath the surface, I suppose. Sometime I think he'd be smooth, though. Him and Bruce. Statues beneath their human veneer. All the scars would fade from their bodies into perfection. Tim stands, a coy smile upon his features, out of place. It doesn't belong there. I slink to the kitchen, vaguely aware that an angry cat was howling in my stomach. If I didn't eat soon, Tim would be sure to hear it and question me. I get out the frying pan and some eggs, all the while my eyes are on him and my hands are off elsewhere like always. My nose wrinkles at the scent of frying protein. Almost like burning flesh. I resist the urge to gag. Tim wanders over like a little faerie. Perhaps a nymph. My mind flashes to an image of him in a tutu and I half grin in horror and shake my head. He's hungry, the animal has smelled his kill. I look at him for a moment and realize how young he is. How small. I can see the soft skin of his hands and feel my own roughened, calloused ones. I suddenly feel like a gorilla. He wanders close to me, so close that the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

"I'm making enough for two." I venture to speak, like plunging into cold water.

"You had no choice to begin with," Cold water, yes. My initial description had been accurate. My eras perk up as he sounds like he's choking to death. Oh god, I panic momentarily, internally, reaching out to wrap my arms around him in the Heimlich. Did I kill him with the disgusting smell? I rush to open a window. Don't die on me, Tim. I'm so crazy sometimes. Crazy bastard. Great, now my thoughts are starting to steal from Salinger. I read too much. I think too much. I should lie down. I sigh. Tim's prancing around and I picture a little fruit basket on his head and the beginnings of a conga line. Wait, he's not prancing. Tim doesn't prance. Well, only when he doesn't mean to. I smile. I maneuver around the kitchen, weaving between Tim. He is looking through my things, almost slamming the cabinets. I grate my teeth a bit-only Tim could ever touch my things like this. My torso brushes his body and I shudder a bit. An orange mug catches his eye and all my annoyance fades as I watch him marvel with the innocence I worried he no longer possessed. My sigh was one of relief as I piled the eggs neatly onto separate plates beside the bacon and sausage, all specially without fat, of course. I examined the plates to make sure the proportions were even, equal, and aesthetically pleasing. The plates were a deep green. I remember buying them with Kory. I thought the green matched her eyes. Tim sniffs the food and I pray it gets his seal of approval. He's eating it, in any case. I just want to please him. Why do I want to please him? I set the plates on the table I hardly use. No time like the present to dish out special services. I pat the seat beside me, inviting him. It was a stupid gesture, really. Harmless. His eyes are so dark.

He elects to sit beside me, but not before glaring at me. I should be honored that the sparkling god, Timothy Drake, would sit beside me, a mere mortal. My eyes roll naturally as I realize there's some truth in my thoughts. This makes me frown. My shoulders tense up as I picture Tim in a toga and laurel leaves, wielding the lightning bolt of the gods. I realize I'm mixing classics here. Fuck it. He would really be Apollo anyway. Yes, my Phoebus. I look at him and wonder how perfect the dimensions of his body really are. I itch to get my tape measurer. I think about measuring Tim. /All/ of Tim. My mind blushes as I try to come up with potential sizes? What the fuck, Dick? I shake the thoughts out of my head. My mind begins to wander and I think about the last time I took a shower. I really am compulsive. I usually shower twice a day, at least. Nightwing showers once after each patrol of course. That's a separate shower, mustn't count the two together. I realize how strange it is to speak of my alter ego to myself. Myself doesn't respond. I think about the woman who lives in my building. MY building. I own a building. I own a circus. There's a 16-year-old boy in my apartment. I look up to a guy who dresses up as a giant bat. I contemplate the weirdness of my life. Anyhow. This woman was going out of town once and she asked me to watch her cat. Orange, tabby, really quite beautiful with green eyes. A mermaid cat. I asked her what she'd named it and she said Hamlet. An awful name for a cat, really. I mean, did she know what happened to Hamlet in the end? I kept the cat for a week-I never told anybody. Sometimes, in the quiet of my apartment, after I showered, I'd find Hamlet sitting just outside the bathroom door, waiting for me. It was nice to have someone there waiting. I don't realize it but my arm has made its way across forbidden territory. It has crossed the barrier and is now resting on Tim's shoulder, kneading his neck ever so gently. Christ. I snatch my hand away quickly. I was hoping he hadn't noticed, but no such luck. He looked at me with soft pleading eyes full of… something. I couldn't tell. His thoughts are always hidden by the dark blue sky. My hands are twitching on the table. I reprimand myself angrily in my mind. I chaste-tise myself. At times I wished I was Catholic so I could say my Hail Marys. Twenty for redemption. I shouldn't have touched him. I pretend I'm Catholic anyway and try to remember the prayer, muttering it under my lips to an invisible man in the sky whose existence I question everyday of my life. I'd make a great Catholic. Movement. My jaw twitches. I face my accuser. Tim. Soft, angular, oxymoronic Tim.

"Hey," his lips form the non-threatening word so softly, full cupid's bow opening and closing, working the tongue muscle, forming words. Words. Do Robin's speak in words? I thought we warbled. Then he does something unexpected. I feel the pressure of his warm skin penetrating my wrist, grabbing it, forceful. Like something I would do. Perfect. My eyes explode open from the shock and I almost moan for this is the first time in a long time anybody's voluntarily touched me at all. He puts my hand back on his neck urgently and I comply, rubbing the mess of bones, sinew, muscle and knots gently, trying to work the secret of his life out of his spinal chord. His flesh is malleable to my hands. Will they smell like him after this? I hoped so. I kept rubbing.

I keep rubbing and my fingers veer over the sharp angles of him. Turn right, turn left. Spinal column, lock of hair, careful don't pull. Not too hard. I hear something that sounds like a strangled moan and my eyes perk up immediately. Tim seems to be pressing himself against my hands much in the manner of the cat i took care of. I would sit petting him for hours each night. My hands need something to do-- I miss that. I explore the area around his neck. His severely sharpened jaw (in comparison to my own. I've a bit of David Hasslehoff in me. Ew, Dick.), the columns of his Adam's apple quivering as it protrudes from his strong milky throat. Tim reminds me of Plexiglas: cold and smooth and fragile, but sinewy and strong. My fingers even dare to brush over his bottom lip, as though by accident. His mouth is soft and succumbing. I feel the moan vibrate through my fingertips this time. My hands instinctively apply more pressure right on his throat-- i'm almost squeezing his airway. His eyes will glaze soon. I have to stop, what's wrong with me? I'm scared to choke him. My hands retreat into his hair. Safe.

He makes a small noise and I freeze, eyes wide and bloodshot. I keep willing my hands to stop moving but they don't seem to be paying any attention to my brain. He's closer now, I can smell his dooming sweat and cologne. Tim's too young to be wearing cologne. His hair is so soft and silky, I almost ask him which shampoo he uses. My fingers rubbing his scalp must make his skin prickle, trigger every electrical sensation. A shiver runs through my body instead of his.

"Dick, can I wear some of your clothes. You know I feel dirty if I don't have something to change into after a shower." He groans out a request. I nod but decide he cannot hear me over the hum of our bodies.

"Of course," my voice is low and rumbling like the heart of thunder. It is too close to his ear yet I move enough closer. This is soft, warm, inviting. His mouth invites me in with yielding parted lips and breathy noises. The unruly hand wanders back to his neck and for a moment it fools me into believing that all it wants is to give a neck rub. You are not that simple, Dick. You are not so pure. It is on his throat again, the thing, the beast, the five-fingered monster squeezing harder this time, definitely wrapped around his throat. There's no mistaking it now. I can feel his pulse quickening beneath my fingers.

The demonic hands continue to squeeze and stroke, exploring the sweet breaths he takes. They are coming short now, in ragged bursts as if about to spill all over my hands. His essence. I would lick my fingers clean. Now Dick, let us hope there is not blood in your eyes, desire. You don't even know what you desire. Do you desire to… stop? The hands keep going, manipulating the flesh. No, no stopping. He makes the softest, smallest of noises and that is enough to make my heart spike and my skin prickle with heat. I shift slightly as my body reacts to the hormones no doubt being secreted by my pancreas as I sit and rub and grow closer and sniff his skin and become dizzy and squeeze. I can feel the nubs of my non-existent fingernails raking lines along his throat as I apply pressure. His face is soft and angelic, everything I'm not. It contorts in pleasure or pain? I cannot tell, I do not wish to tell. I simply do not stop and my tongue darts over my lips on its own, trying to taste the electricity in the air. You don't know what you're doing to me, Tim. The urge to grab his chin is strong. It pulls at my navel like a terrifying creature from a Blake painting; digging its unseen claws in my flesh, compelling me and all that impedes me is memories of the previous night. It is more than enough. I am not sure but I think I may have accidentally let his name slip out, soft from my lips. He did not hear me, and I silently thank the gods and push my hand along the soft skin sprinkled with sparse hair. He turned and I could see his sharp profile. I outline his shape with my eyes, tracing it in my mind with my fingertips, picturing my finger caught between his lips like a gleaming fish on a hook. I do not think most fish wish to be caught but if I were a fish I would be one of them, sparkling blue and wanton. I am shameless. I think of his soft pink tongue caressing my flesh and my eyes shoot open.

"Thank you." His voice comes, hoarse and cracked, as he removes my hand from the nape of his neck. I let it rest on his thigh, feeling the heat pulsating from the flesh. The soft skin is already pink and a bit swollen where my grasping hands were exploring, squeezing and asphyxiating Tim's hand snakes clumsily into my hair and I get out a loud groan, leaning forward slightly with a small pump of my hips at the sheer sensation. My hand is stroking his thigh gently, in rhythm with his fingers tangled in my hair. Perhaps it is a precursor. He needed to shower-I remember. But not as badly as I needed it. I remember the way Garth smelled and how soapy he was, how salty like the ocean. Tim is not like that at all. He smells clean and defiant, and I detect the faint scent of the chill that comes before an impending rainstorm. Bruce will probably be wondering where he is. I extinguish a smirk as I picture the conversation in my mind. He's here, Bruce. At my house, touching me. I'm touching him. God that sounds so wrong yet my hand keeps weaving along the fibers of his jeans. He stretches and groans, releasing me from my fantasies. I bite my lip, hard.

"Where do you keep your towels?" Towels? Oh yeah, he's going to shower. But I need… at least I'll be alone while he showers. My eyes looked glazed over, I can tell. I remove my hand from his thigh, grazing him gently. My eyes are wide and I consider how bloodshot they must be, how messy my hair. I feel him straining against the fabric and my teeth sink into my lip even harder. I think I must be gushing blood by now and resist the urge to touch my mouth to make sure I haven't bitten it off. That would seem like an open invitation and I resist the urge. What would I look like without my mouth? It would just be a gaping hole in my middle of my face, sucking and vacant like the black holes in space. You can't see a black hole because it pulls light in before the reflection is made. That is what I am, an unreflective black hole. He's only sixteen, Christ Dick. My hand twitches slightly and brushes against him once more before finding its way to my own lap, dangerously close to my own burning skin. I look at him with darkening eyes and my throat is seared shut.

"In the...cabinet in the bathroom." The scorched skin seems to melt as my vocal chords find relief once more. He immediately bolted to the bathroom, trying to play it off as innocent, his footsteps like an owl's making no noise as they collided with my floor. I heard each resounding thud echo. I have remarkably good hearing. His doe eyes lock into my sparkling ones and I lick my lips. He looks bewildered as he goes through the cabinet, our eyes penetrating each other once more before he slams the door. I close my eyes, leaning back, allowing the sound of individual water droplets hitting the shower floor and Tim's moans to lull my stroking hand into a steady rhythm, and I groan loudly, allowing the sound to reverberate off the walls and enliven my fantasy that there was another person there from whom the noise originated. I hear the strangled choking sound Tim makes as he attempts to hide his state from me, even there, in the privacy of the bathroom. I imagine his soft ragged breaths and the image of him in the shower bores its way like a hot iron into my brain, causing my hand to move faster upon my aching flesh. I jump as I hear the water being turned off. Tim emerges from the bathroom rosy cheeked and freshly clean. I growl as my unfinished fantasy rubs against my erection upon the sight of him, and a moan is strangled in my mouth. I look up to find Tim dangerously close to me, smelling of my shampoo. I fight the smile that turns to a growl of frustration as I see his wet warm skin and now battle with the urge to suck the moisture from his skin. No scars, I can see. The towel is thrown about his waist haphazard and I itch to yank it from him and examine the rest of him. He is strikingly symmetrical as I have imagined and my eyes wander up and down his body without rest, making my flesh jerk urgently. I stifle a moan and look about wildly, trying to find something to cover up with. The darkness of the fabric of my pants will only do so much to hide my condition from the perceptive boy. He asks for clothes but I am afraid to stand and give myself away. I stand anyway, carefully, moving past him, my body brushing against his wet form. I am sure there are Tim-outlines in water on my shirt. The sensation of contact brings another noise to my lips, louder this time, and it escapes. I gape at him for a moment, comparing our heights. He is almost as tall as I am and that is threatening somehow.


	8. Chapter 8

"I'll go get t-them" the stammer shakes my voice as the result of my trembling body. I growl, half at the desire, half at the weakness, and turn toward the dark recesses of my bedroom door. I stumble into my bedroom, trying to muster gracelessness and failing miserably. I thought it was foolish of me not to be able to be foolish, yet I was foolish in so many ways. To my surprise and pleasure, Tim followed me into the bedroom. The taste of pleasure turned to bitter discomfort in my mouth as I was not alone anymore and could not relieve myself. Tim was standing so close to me, I could feel his hot breath on my neck and half cursed half praised him for his height, the tingling sensation of his breathing made me forget why I came in here for a moment. I turned around and almost collided with him, standing there shivering. I resisted the urge to wrap my arms around him, as our noses were so close they almost touched and transferred the last bits of water left of his skin to mine. The closeness of it made me shudder and renewed my erection even more, if possible. It was to the point of pain now, and I clenched my jaw to conceal my current condition and I just stood there, looking at him, aching to plunge into those pools of blue that lay before me, and half snarling to bite his lip and drink him in. Damned towel. Perhaps I could coax him out of it… my powers of persuasion were taught to me by the legendary Batman and I don't think he's had time yet to teach Tim. He never taught Jason; he didn't need to teach Jason that much. I closed my eyes briefly to shield Tim from my smouldering gaze; afraid it would burn his flesh. I moved slightly closer and felt the accidental brush of his lips and my own as I reached forward to pluck and eyelash from his cheek. I averted his eyes and blew on the soft thing, making a wish deep in the core of my wretched body that I wouldn't dare repeat even to myself. I watched it float away on the invisible breeze that constantly swept through my apartment and promptly went to the drawer, retrieving a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt for Tim, determined to ignore what had just transpired.

To my relief and secret despair, Tim took the clothes I'd presented him and I told myself everything was okay. My breath spiked in my throat as he promptly dropped the towel and pulled the clothing on, standing for a moment in stark naked glory and my pitiful shameless eyes could not help feasting upon the sight. In that split second (and all the while he changed) I noted the slim lines of scar tissue on his back and shoulders. They crisscrossed on his thighs and deeper gashes twisted themselves around his back. I knew I was not much different in the mirror and briefly wondered if we were the same person. My throat went dry examining him so closely and I took a step forward to inhale the scene further. When he finished, he was dangerously close as my one step turned into two and then three.

"Socks?" he chirped in a voice so innocent I wanted to throttle him and gouge my eyes out at the same time as the bastards kept jumping up and down his body, ravishing it as I could not. My shoulders tensed and I was a stone gargoyle blemishing the face of a church, looking down at the angels in my path. Just one angel, and he stared at me once more with those innocent eyes. I fought a lump in my throat, swallowing hard, retrieving socks for him. By this time I'd learned to ignore my throbbing arousal. I half-shoved them at him and gave him my signature warm smile, hoping to melt some of the tension in the air. But at the same time the tense atmosphere was exciting, making me aware of the nerves in my body as I hadn't been in a long time, of the molecules of air vibrating around me in an exaggerated samba My shoulders were still bunched up as I put a friendly hand on his shoulder and shook my pupils clear of lust and foggy thoughts of chemistry.

"Here, these are my warmest pair. You look so cold." Hand gives reassuring squeeze to go with reassuring smile. Shoulders-not reassuring. "Relax." He bit his lip unconsciously, seemingly deep in thought.

"Does your back hurt?" His voice cut into my thoughts and I blinked at him for a moment, straightening.

"Yes," I nodded. "It aches terribly." What do you plan to do about it, I asked in my head, truly puzzled at where his question was going. At times I am naïve to the motivations of people but am able to pass it off as though I know whatever somebody is thinking at any given time. I suppose it is a talent to make up for lack of talent in other areas. I am hardly perfect. I crack my neck with a sickening crunch, resisting the urge to wince and be a wimp in front of Tim.

"Little brother…" I do not know how to finish the sentence. I just keep my hand on his shoulder gently for a moment before letting it slink back to my side. I thought of Tim in the Robin costume, which has been modified since I first wore it. Bruce let me design it myself and my mind lingers to the short sleeves, the necklace. The R in the chest. The short shorts. Everything was short at one point-I was a very strange kid. Bruce sniggered at me secretly when I demonstrated their length. He didn't understand the tendencies the circus had instilled in me. I sigh and allow my hand to guide my thumb, the skin brushing against Tim's bottom lip gently, as a gesture of affection, I told myself, before floating back to my little sphere of living adjacent to his. I really must stop touching him.

"Why do you ask?" I decide that's a safe question.

"I thought since you helped me out earlier, I'd return the favor and help you with those knots in your back." His response was both startling and intriguing and my eyes bore holes into his lanky body hardened through the same treatment I'd essentially gotten and was putting myself through everyday since then. I glanced at his hands, judging their strength, remembering the firm grip he has on his utilities, his grappling hook as it shot from his hand. Tim would never fall as I never fell and this excited me somehow. My body gave an internal lurch and I chided my heart thinking of those strong slim hands playing my body like a finely tuned piano. Tim would be a great pianist, those tapering fingers stroking the ivory keys with precision.

"That would be nice," I groan out. Such a generic response, Dick. Say something more-you're so boring, so flat. "I'd like to see what your hands can do-" Where did that come from? I mentally bash my head against the wall. That was so suggestive and I knew I meant it. I longed to see what those learned yet endearingly inexperienced hands could do to my lean form. I hungered for those slender, strong fingers to dance over my body and make me… Stop it, Dick. I looked at him.

"Where should we--I--?" came the response and he blushed so sweetly and faintly it was all I could do to keep from ravaging him right there. I knew he'd intended to ask me where we should go for him to begin working his magic on my body yet I my unruly mouth still contorted into a large, pouting smirk. I let my hands wander over the small of his back and linger near his hips before both they and the smirk faded.

"On the couch." Yes, my nice white could where we could lay down-- /i/ could lay down, I meant. White. White is so pure. Tim is so pure. I wish to make him not so pure. Less white. The white couch. The perfect place. My grotesque mind floated to scenarios in which we soiled the couch in various forms. I looked at him and licked my lips, startling even myself at this even more suggestive action to follow my previous statement. Then I swaggered to the couch and collapsed gracefully and silently upon its unsuspecting springs, lounging on my stomach, my attentive eyes watching Tim's movements, waiting. I smiled sideways for him to join me.

He skipped over to me in that queer way of his (queer as in strange and not the other kind of queer though it's not like I hadn't considered it and I just kept smirking), and crouched down beside me. It was sweet in a way-his timidness, something I'm not used to seeing. It must be cast aside as something primitive and strangely sensual comes over him when he fights. I understand this: the adrenaline rush, the pure exhilaration and realization that you're watching the fluid movements of your body outside of yourself, like some warped ballet. His hands slide up my shirt and I hear myself let out a deep groan as they make contact. I bite my lip, wondering if he thinks the scars to be grotesque. He's on the floor, no this won't do.

"What are you doing down there? Get on top of me." I am too commanding, the words are forceful and final and I worry I've frightened him. My hand darted behind my back to grasp his gently, working a finger along his wrist, barely grazing the skin and making actual contact. I don't know why I had done that.

"It'll be more comfortable that way-for me at least." I laughed good-naturedly, hoping I hadn't frightened him away. "That way your hands can reach more of… me" what a clumsy phrase. I wasn't used to being clumsy. He climbed eagerly on top of me and the pressure and the weight of him put pressure on my body, which was still semi-aroused. I let out a groan, half out of pleasure, half from pain as his hands started on me again. The light way his fingertips grazed my shoulder blades made me shiver and resist the urge to laugh and admit I was ticklish. This was so different from anybody else who'd ever touched me. Garth… well he was not the massaging kind. We were hormonal teens then and he'd just as soon settle for a quickie. Kory's hand would nearly split me in two before she realized to control her strength. I used to tremble with fear at the thought of us making love and the possible detachment of my body parts that would ensue. Barbara… she was not the gentle type. Not like this surprisingly gentle boy. I was not really so surprised, as I always suspected he had it in him. Tim isn't all he seems on the outside. I allowed his hands to tentatively explore my flesh before diving in without abandon before posing the question:

"Would you like to continue this in bed?" Smooth Dick. You're not courting a girl here. You're just getting a back rub from your little brother. But I couldn't deny the jump of my flesh at the thought as the pressure and friction between my thighs almost overtook me. His nails scrape my back and he hops up in response. My skin tingles from the sensation and I can see that he's agreeing… eagerly. I stand and stretch, from my fingertips to my toes, with the yawn of a large cat. I am a panther stalking my prey. Who is my prey? Is it Tim? Yes…I'm eager to be touched more… my smirk is unconsciously plastered upon my face as I advance upon him, graceful, and he reacts like the elk I see, the tiger I know he is underneath the meek exterior his nervousness has carved out for the moment. I make a move to stroke his jaw with my hand and it is obvious but I draw back and brush past him, hoping the movement would distract him from the obvious tightness in my pants. I am enclosed in darkness as I enter my room, and decide to leave it dark as I plunge into to white comforter on the bed, eyes all this time fixated on Tim, waiting for him. These viewing glasses contract into slits, beckoning him silently to hurry up for I miss the crushing feeling of his weight upon me. I figure the bed won't put as much pressure on my hips and I can continue to ignore my throbbing flesh.


	9. Chapter 9

Tim climbed on top of me, mounting me in a sense. I shivered at the thought as his flesh blended with my own, seeking out the knots of tension like a homing missile, and I groan and detonate beneath his hands. I think of him standing briefly in the doorway, contemplating entry into my den. Was I going to devour him? Even I haven't answered that yet. A growl erupts in my mind, thinking of ways to take him and make him less chaste. I am not aware of much except the wonderful hands stretching my skin and thinning my reservations. Suddenly his lips press against my jaw line: one simple, fatal kiss. It was so sensual, so soft and reserved yet inhibition less and my breath caught in my throat. A soft moan managed to pass through my lips.

"Tim…" part whimper, part groan, part question it was but a breath. I dared not breathe or speak anymore in fear of shattering this moment and sending him running. All the while his hands continued their fluid wading through the shores of my back. He tensed up and his hands stopped momentarily, making me shake a bit the way I used to do when I was a child and my mother would stop stroking my hair. It was trivial, really. A small motion. I could tell he was thinking and I desperately wanted to know what. I exhaled and my eyes bolted up as his lips wandered over my neck, hesitantly at first but then more freely and the sheer pleasure of that combined with his expert hands made me moan, low and clear. I knew he'd heard. Somewhere within that noise his name was embedded once more. I bit my lip and lay still, wanting more and waiting for his next move. He couldn't write that off as a slip or an accident. His motion was deliberate, soft, lustful. It had been so long but I still recognized the familiar desire. I licked my lips as more soft noises flowed from my throat and into Tim's ears.

My mind began to race as noises continued to spill from my mouth. The boy was toying with me-- what was he doing? What was his angle? Suspicious, I went through the list of possible motives in my head but could not find a suitable one. His lips brushed my cheek in a soft, boyish way. Just what i would expect from him. I knew Tim wasn't very physical-- at least he wasn't used to the physical. I knew he missed her-- yes that must be it! He just misses Stephanie. His sharp nose jabbed my chin, forcing me to turn. My eyes widened to draw in light and he kisses me, ever so briefly, but it was enough to make me feel like a disarmed warhead. I was at a loss as to what I should do next and my tongue darted out, seeking his mouth but it was nowhere to be found. The magickal hands were back dancing on my skeleton and I pictured Tim taking out two mallets and playing my spinal column like a xylophone. The imprint of his kiss was still upon my lips and another groan, low and loud and intense, worked its way from between my moistened lips.

"...Again" I barely breathed, trapped by his form and weight, unable to respond with anything other than words. Mere words. Sometimes words were not enough, my words had failed me. I can feel his body tense above me, contemplating. He over thinks everything, and I can almost hear the scraping of gears in his head, the same way he would think about his next move during a fight. That's all I am to him-I curse. The equivalent of a battle, something to calculate, something to perfect. What will he do after he perfects this? I cringe to think of it, the sure abandonment, and then chastise myself for making this more than it is. It was only one kiss. Two-now his lips push themselves over mine, working themselves into the grooves of my mouth. He is rougher than I expected, though not entirely devoid of passion. His movements are slightly mechanical, however, and I fight disappointment. I'd have to teach him. His pulls away but I am not yet satisfied, and I feel the ebb and flow of warm breath on my neck. It makes me shudder and I wretch one of my hands loose. It slinks over his neck and to his chin, touching his lips briefly before settling and pulling his face closer. I watch it loom in my vision, as our faces become one lustful blur. My lips are hot against his, slow and potent, determined to savor the experience, tongue snaking over his lip, drinking in his shudders. His mouth is soft and malleable, it forms to my caresses and I enjoy the small cracks in the earned by the skin as it faced the cold and the wind. The force of my body sends small shockwaves to the youth and he tumbles from me, a smile passing over my lips as they briefly leave his. He is breaking down, slowly but surely, his defenses are weaning and there is more feeling to it now as my hands wander over his back, feeling the contraction and relaxation of taut muscles slithering beneath his skin. I allow myself to break from his embrace, briefly, and he whimpers softly. I hope it is out of desire for me. My body turns, twisting and arching, until I am partially above him, looking down at his panic stricken, confused, lustful face. The combination is strangely perfect and urging, and I look at the flawless column of his throat before leaning down and piercing his shell with another kiss, deeper than any of the previous, tongue making its way slowly into the warm crevices of his mouth, drinking in his moans before they are let out into the atmosphere, afraid to lose them and forget this moment.

I force my hand out from under him, using it instead to stroke his side gently as I continue to probe his mouth, each individual pressure becomes a question: What do you want? Why do you want it? Do you want me? Why are you doing this to me? Does this feel good? What do you want. The last question is firm and demanding as I press my tongue to the roof of his mouth, exploring the sensitivity, feeling his body hum like a tuning fork struck to play a completely new melody and I am pressed against him like a prisoner on the wall, wanting to let go but unable. Tim entrances me but eventually I become stronger than the enchantment and pull away, looking at him, hoping my eyes are soft and inviting as I wish them to be.

"Tim…" the word falls from my lips once more, or perhaps he has plucked it as he's plucked all former memories from my brain and all that is left is him, right here, and now. Oh, I shall have to thank him for that later. My hand brushes a fumbling strand of hair from his forehead as my pupils continue to watch and dance, contracting and expanding, noting the exact details of the lines on his forehead. Working with Bruce is giving him early crow's feet but I think they make him look regal somehow. There is something new in his flesh, a secret waiting to be dug out by my pressing body pressing questions against his heart-innocent urgency. That is what I feel. Innocent desire, innocent sin. I almost moan with delight from it and I wish to squeeze every sweet drop of it from him like from a black stone.

My eyebrows etch into a deep furrow as he pulls out from under me, propping himself up and facing me, almost like a challenge. Two rams about to butt heads except different. I picture two rams in a field of daises, disclosing their feelings for each other and contemplate telling Tim of the funny image, but decide not to. I cannot help the furrow in my forehead, though, as much as I wish to erase it. It is annoying and not the message I wish to convey. Why did I say his name? I'm not sure where to go from here, and my hand finds his, hovering above and then laying down to rest on it gently, or perhaps to die. I'm sure there is a blush upon my cheeks and hope he doesn't see it. No, I want him to see it, to see the feeling, to see that this experience registered in many parts of my brain not simply as carnality and desire but something more.

"Yes?" his voice penetrates the wall between us and I almost draw back as some of its glass shatters onto my chest. An answer is expected but I don't have one. The cold seeps back into my bones and I shiver, thinking, but making sure to keep looking at him. All hopes of reading his face dissolve, as he is back to robotic Tim, expressionless. Beep Beep, cold and sterile, so much it is acrid and biting and I almost whimper. I have the taste of him in my mouth, surprisingly sweet. This confuses me: he doesn't eat sweets, he's not allowed to. Where did this come from? Was he naturally sweet?

"Have you been sneaking Zesti?" the question is blurted out before I have a chance to intercept it.

"No…" his eyes dart around and my frown deepens, zeroing in on the lie. My teeth click and I glare at him. "No!" he almost shouts and then I'm sure he's lying. I can't help but laugh warmly.

"Liar," I shake my head with a good-natured smile and accidentally catch his eye, finding myself unable to look away as though possessed. I just stare. God I must look like an idiot. A small smirk dances on his lips. Damn it, that's /my/ trademark.

"It makes me taste better." His face immediately falls with regret as a giant smirk overtakes my own features, almost leering. I cannot wipe it off my face, nor can I extract the huskiness from my voice as my hand reaches out to trace his jaw, pulling him closer.

"Can't argue with you there." So damned low, much chase the undertones from it. I try again. "You'd better be careful. Now I've a way of checking if you've been sneaking sweets." I wait for him to blush, as though that were my goal. Now I've a way of checking? Did that mean I intended on kissing him again? Yes, I most definitely did.

"It's almost dark, I better get home soon. You better get on the route," I slumped forward slightly, disappointed. The coldness had crept into his voice again and since when did darkness make any difference to him? He simply wants to avoid me, to leave and pretend this never happened. I knew it would be that way. My heart skips a beat as he opens his mouth to chirp more into my ear.

"I think I'll do my route tonight, I'm feeling better." I open my mouth to respond but he cuts it off with a kiss. A surprised noise rolls off my lips and into his, and my hands are instantly weaving through his hair, wrought with insanity and desire. I pull my fingers through the soft tufty mass, enjoying the slick feeling my shampoo imposed on the follicles as they curve to my hands. My tongue licks at his lips, longing to taste the trace sweetness I'd briefly experienced and now hungered for.

To my relief he does not resist but seems to crave this as much as I do. His feline body forms to mine in a beautiful streamlined curve and I'm in awe. I decide to keep my eyes open as I continue kissing him, wary of not capturing the entire moment otherwise. He initiated this. He's continuing this. My head swam with clouds of different colors, brief flashes of Babs and Bruce and Jason fluttered through my head but the prominent fog made its way over my eyes in a flurry of green and red. I was lost in Tim. Time. Ha.

"Dick, I love you. You're a beautiful creature." My eyes fly open, lashes striking my brow line with such a force I think I will bruise but I know I am only exaggerating in my state of shock. This time his tongue is not idle but works into my mouth with surprising skill. I moan as his hands brush my hipbones and the couple sensations are too much as I am reminded of my now numb arousal.

"Tim…" my groans are suffocated by the kisses as I snake my arms around him, making sure to keep him firmly in place, one hand wandering up the naked flesh of his back underneath the impeding fabric. My bedroom, my mind registers briefly and the realization flickers through my head. We're in my bedroom, Tim and I happened in my bedroom, would my sheets smell like him now? He told me he loved me and I froze, thankfully I didn't have to respond because he didn't give me the chance. How did I feel about him? I know I care deeply for him, and there has always been something bubbling underneath the surface of my skin, like an itch that would become irritated whenever he was around. His lips and taste suited mine better than anybody's had in the past. But love? I don't know. What's love? I go through the list in my mind: Kory, Barbara, Garth, Bruce… etcetera. Were any of those love? How does one tell?

"Dick, aren't you afraid?" I pull away and look at him, sudden strength scorching through my veins as the need to protect him takes over, the need to reassure his hunched shoulders. Tim doesn't usually hunch and I take this as a sign of defeat.

"No, little brother…" I take the chance. "…Lover." My voice is soft and warm, and I will it to caress his skin with invisible fingers. "Everything about you frightens me except what you believe to be frightening. I won't get hurt, Tim, unless you will it." My smile is pliable and lucid upon my features, illuminating the tenderness in my eyes. I lean plunge forward and plant gentle kisses on his neck, hoping they'll grow into something more someday. His skin is hot and soft beneath my lips, firm and pulsating. "I'm not afraid." I repeat. "Trust me." The taut flesh leans to me, twisting to allow better access.

"Isn't it odd how anyone that gets close to me dies? Isn't it odd how the only two girlfriends I've ever had died?" I pull away and look at him, squarely in the eyes. His are watery and the corners of my mouth turn down at his fear and sadness. How lonely he is, how lonely he's fated to be. I want to save him. My thumb brushes his cheek gently. He is frightened that somehow, by getting involved with him, I will get hurt. That I'll die. He's so small and vulnerable I wish to cradle him within my cranium with all my other dark dreams and scant strokes of brilliance.

"Tim…" I'm not sure how to begin, how to convey to him that his fears are so… sweet. They make me love him more. Wait-more? I must've said that last part aloud-idiot. Dick, you're a fool. I clear my throat, embarrassed. "Our lifestyle is dangerous. I have been doing this since before you, since before we met. It is natural to worry when the person you love is tangled up in this shit, but you are not poisonous." I soften my gaze. "If I die, it would never be because of you." Whatever he's about to say is cut off promptly by my lips upon his, urgent, trying to engrave my previous statement into his flesh. His limbs tangle with mine, pressing closer to me as if trying to bore a hole in my chest and crawl inside. It is almost painful but I am delirious with the sensation of it, of caring. His eyes are closed, eyeballs skittering side to side in thought beneath the thin eyelids and thick lashes.

"You can save me, Dick." I look at him and the pangs come in slow bursts, skewing my heartbeat. Save him? How could I save him? Have I ever really saved anybody? Bruce? No… Bruce and I liked to think we saved each other but in reality nothing had been accomplished. Not the others, definitely not. Did I want to be the hero? No, not /the/ hero. His hero. He thinks I cannot see him crying and tries to hide it, but I can more than see it. I feel it in the hollows of my collarbones, the shuddering of my own chest and it swells with his pain. If he was trying to get inside me, it worked. I wrap my arms about him, trying to protect him from the evil birds I know reside in my walls and would peck at his flesh otherwise. Oh Tim, don't you see the truth--- the pain you'll receive from /me/ I want this to last a little longer. I hum a soft melody as the striking of the clock declares the lateness of the hour. My lips linger a little longer upon his and then pull away.

"I feel you…" It is barely a whisper as I lick the salty tear from his cheek, waiting for more to come. "I'm here."


	10. Chapter 10

It seems like all i'm doing is waiting for Bruce to die. I know that sounds terrible but there isn't anything else in my life worth waiting for right now. It's not that I want Bruce to die-- maybe i just want Batman to die so I can grieve and take over. At least that'd give me something to do. They're all gone, you see. Barbara's... well... Barbara. She doesn't speak to me like we were ever lovers (though we technically weren't), not that she ever would've anyway. She's a machine. she's partially broken. she's the Oracle-- nothing else to say. Kory's a million miles away-- literally. Tempest's in the deep dark blue somewhere, and Arsenal's probably off shooting up heroin. Okay that was a bit harsh, I take it back. Not a Titan, not an Outsider, not a Leaguer. For the first time in a long time, i have nobody. Even he's gone. He's been gone for months. No goodbye, no suicide note, not anything. I should've expected that. The iron burns my fingertips as i wedge the hot metal into my shirt, alieviating it of folds. I wish I could take the iron to my head and smooth out the creases in my forehead. What am I preparing for? I have no plans for the night other than a date with the scum of Bludhaven. They don't care what I'm wearing, some of them still refer to me as Batman. That always puts a sneer upon my lips and an extra hard roundhouse to their faces. These days there's little more to me than Nightwing. Dick Grayson--Dick who? Gone, consumed by a pupil-less mask, surrendered to the shadows.

It's quiet tonight. Perhaps that's just because the buzzing in my skull has subsided. I am blank, motionless, thoughtless. Bruce'd be proud. Barb—I mean Oracle told me Tim had gotten back a few days ago. A few days? He hadn't told me, hadn't called, yet Barbara knew. I didn't ask her if he'd told her or if she simply knew. Barbara knew everything. Oracle. Oracle, I mean. Tim and I used to be brothers but I don't know what we are now. Estranged cousins? My mind wanders back to that night, to the "incident" and how he'd slept in my arms so comfortably, filling every crevice up so nicely and with such warmth I was moved almost to tears. Then the cold sensation of waking up alone. He'd gotten the Batman exit down nicely, I should tell him that whenever I see him again.

Of course her information was reliable, I chided myself. If Barbara says he's back, then it must be true. I didn't have to see for myself, but the stubborn curiosity within me urged me to hop from rooftop to rooftop. I sneered when I saw him, seeing the mask plastered upon his regardlessly emotionless face, knowing he'd resumed his position here as though nothing had changed. As though months were days. And still I trailed him, careful to cloak myself, staying out of sight yet lingering close to him the entire route to his apartment. Then I should've just turned around and swung back but I didn't. I stayed to watch the soft rise and fall of his breath as he slept, seeing the dragon of his spine curve and muscle clench as he twisted in sleep. I'm thrown from my thoughts by the irritating buzzing that is my phone on vibrate. I looked around for a moment, bewildered, wondering what it was. Phone. It kept ringing, once, twice, three times, and I just stared. When the phone rings, you are supposed to answer it. IT means somebody's on the other line. Somebody took the time to pick up the hunk of plastic and metal and called /me/ thought of me, taken the risk of getting a tumor from the radio waves to hear my scratchy voice. It's been so long since I've had a conversation with somebody that I'd forgotten what it sounded like. I pick it up, not bothering to screen the call.

"Hello?" my voice is uncertain.

"Hey, is this a bad time?" I froze. My breath got caught in my throat as neurotransmitters flooded my brain and identified the voice on the other end as one hidden within the recesses of my mind. I hadn't heard from him in two months, two days. Tim. I realize my right hand has started quivering, something that hasn't happened since my parent's funeral. What do I say? Suddenly my shirt is very itchy and it's hot in this room. I tug at my collar uncomfortably, feeling suddenly as though I can't breathe and panic floods my body, momentarily breaking through the dam that is my logic. I fear that I'll suffocate for a half a second and just as suddenly the feeling is gone. We haven't even gotten into a conversation yet, I remind myself.

"N-no. of course not." My dry voice cracks a bit and I clear my throat. "What's going on?" stupid question.

"I've been gone so long I was beginning to think I'd never get back!" He let out a small animalistic noise that almost pulled a smile from my crumbling face. Cheeriness was never his strong point, what was he trying to pull here?

"Yeah, neither did I." My voice was tainted with bitterness and the sullen emptiness I'd felt for so long.

"Listen, I can tell it's a bad time. I should get going." He is a deer in headlights and for a moment I relish having control once more. I weigh the options: ask him to stay, tell him to leave. Tell him I'm going to leave and be alone once more. But I had my pride. It wasn't as prominent or as troublesome and Tim or Bruce's pride, but it reared its scaled head every now and then. My mind screamed: He doesn't care about you! Friends inform each other of such drastic movements. Brothers are aware when one leaves, brothers worry. Lovers… well I won't go there. Lovers. I scoff and the scorn of my own tongue sears the inside of my mouth. _"Dick, I love you…" _But you left me, Timmy. Is that how to treat the people you love? Or do you think it's okay because they all end up dead anyway? I scoff again. Love? Do I love you? Of course I do, I always have. You're the spitting image of the Devil and I, of Bruce and your father, of youth and regret. Love… love means you care. You don't care, Tim! I still didn't know what to say.

"Yes, okay, as you wish. I'll speak to you later then." My voice barely registers as my own.

"A lot happened to me. Sometimes I wonder if anybody can understand what it's like to be the teen-wonder—having people try to hit you and your partner for cold cash, your cowled boss finding out you've been lying to him, then getting drafted into the military—jeez it's like my life is just so hectic I don't get time for the important things." Angry creeps into his voice. It was unusual for him to lose control like that. But he hadn't left yet—that was a good sign. I stagger slightly, hurt, glad he can't see me. Sarcasm ran from his veins to mine.

"If anybody can understand, it's me." Keep your cool, Dick. This doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things where we all end up dead anyway. "I'm glad you're alright." Genuine emotion. Truth. Neutrality. I bite my lip to keep the emotions pressing threateningly against my tongue from spilling out.

"Tell me why you're not all right." His voice is soft with concern he's trying to keep from creeping into his voice. Despite all its cracks and rough edges, there was honey to the way he sounded and I let myself bathe in it for a moment before snapping back to reality from that warm pool of blackness.

"Who said I wasn't alright?" Cheery chirpy Dick. We can forget anything ever happened… before and after he left. Up to this point. It wasn't my business anyway. He'd prefer it that way, I'm sure. What was he trying to protect me from with that soft voice of his? Tim is deceptive. He hides his softness between his angular bones and his sharp, clinical words but I know its there and I long to reach out for it. "I'm fine, little brother."

"Dick, have you ever considered counseling?" Frown lines write themselves upon my forehead like an Etch-A-Sketch. What was he implying? Wounded and insulted, my words hobbled to my lips.

"Excuse me?"

"Oh crap. Dick, my kitchen is on fire! I'll have to call you back." Then the sound of the dial tone. Beep. Flat line. The line is dead; boy no longer wishes to speak to you. Boy came up with lamest excuse on planet. I laugh bitterly. Maybe his kitchen really was on fire… I reluctantly fight the screaming from my gut and give him the benefit of the doubt. Counseling.. The boy thought I was insane. He didn't understand me at all. My heart sank to my stomach. I have been disowned by the bat family. None of them understand me. Maybe Stephanie could've—she was silly and unsubstantial but at least she had feelings. I know Tim has feelings but he chooses to repress them. Counseling… I am not insane. Am I? I jump and dart to the mirror, making sure my eyes were both there, both the same color. Pale, melancholy blue. My irises looked starved, pupils wont for light. I ignored them and put on my suit, right down to the escrima sticks on my back and headed out into the night, letting the cold biting air rush past me as I fell free, the dark spot of the sky erasing any bitter memories as blood pounded in my ears, drowning out my thoughts.

I am a stag. No, I'm the ghost of a stag floating gracefully from rooftop to rooftop, surveying the streets below for trouble. Quiet, dirty alleys and lovers on park benches meet my whitened eyes. There are two men on the docks harassing a petite brunette. She is so slight and slender that I wonder for a moment if she will blow away in the breeze and the man grabbing her arm is just grounding her. I shake my head and jump down to the salt-soaked wood, concern and disgust written upon my features. The two men sneered and saw me, mistaking me for Batman once more. They were rewarded with two swift blows to the gut and large stinging slaps across the face from the escrimas. Everything was in slow motion as I relished the sound of bone crunching, yielding to metal and wood, and the mixture of horror and gratefulness on the woman's face as I delivered a final kick to the assailants' chests and sailed back up onto my former watchful perch. Again I moved along the city, keenly aware that somebody was trailing me and had been for a while. I was biding my time, waiting for them to make a move, longing to crush their windpipe. I was in the mood for confrontation.

I land on a rooftop, silently, as Bruce had taught me, and consider going home for the night, but I know I can't abandon my patrol. The previous encounter had gotten my blood pumping sweet and thick through my veins. I could still smell the putrid stench of the two men and I growled. The mysterious shadow had decided to join me on the rooftop then. I tensed and waited. He crept closer, I could hear him breathing. Just a step further… My hand darted out and seized him by the throat, each delicate bone circling his trachea, threatening to rout it. He let out a small startled noise. I faltered a bit and let go, moonlight illuminating his form. Tim? I squinted.

"Nightwing, let me apologize for my previous mistakes." He stumbled back and found his voice. In the glow of the sky, I could see his soft skin, the dent of his cupid's bow before it gave rise to his slightly chapped lips. I looked him over, checking briefly for any new scars that may've been visible but thankfully there weren't any. His apology was so… unfamiliar. Robotic. I fought the urge to laugh.

"Tim...?" My voice was soft, barely audible, small and questioning. My hand reached out slowly toward his erect form, touching the air where he'd been moments ago before pulling back. I just wanted to make sure he was really there. To my complete shock, he didn't say anything but seemed to fall forward. I was afraid he'd been shot from behind until his arms blasted out and snaked themselves around my waist, pressing me against the warmth of him. The wind caught his cape and it wrapped itself around the both of us. It felt almost as though he were trying to suck some small fragment or life or forgiveness or… something from me as he held on as though he really were bleeding to death. My hands went instinctively and helplessly to his back, caressing the smooth strong muscle that twisted beneath his skin, my face in his hair. I grew almost dizzy from his scent, muttering a small "Oh" of content and pleasure and warmth.

"I-I missed you, brother." His lips were parted and I peered inside, hoping to gain insight somehow to his insides. All I saw was the cavernous depth of his smooth throat and I could feel his breath on my mouth, warm and eager. My eyebrows drooped in a question: what did he want? His grip around my waist tightened and I smiled despite myself.

"I missed you too, Timothy." I tried to keep pull him even closer if that was possible, pulling the tangle of our bodies to tightly together that we almost seemed to fuse and that was what I wanted, to be part of somebody and breathe a sigh of relief and content. To be part of Tim. Our arms are the same arms, our blood is the same blood, our hair is the same down to the roots. Brother. My face was inches from his, searching, cursing the white mask that made it impossible to read his actions or thoughts. I worried that he was in some sort of pain. His mouth pressed questioningly and softly to mine, and it was all I could do to keep my knees from buckling. I could feel his lips parting, working themselves over mine as small quick exhales floated from his lungs to mine. I felt the salty trickle of a tear come running into our fused lips. Tim kissing. Tim crying. Tim… And I. Again? My mind couldn't seem to form coherent thoughts as all of my emotions were in sentence fragments. The warmth of his mouth melted from mine and I craved it again. His nose jabbed my shoulder painfully as he hid his face. The gesture was so innocent, so childlike, I bit back a smile. My hands tapered to his chin, pulling him to face me once more. My thumb wiped the streaks of fluid from his cheeks gently, slowly, cautiously, the rough pads of my fingers working their way over the intense smoothness of his skin. I allowed my lips to brush his once more, in just the barest of gestures, hoping he would understand the sign of approval. I felt the tingle as our bodies collided at that one pressure point, his flesh shivering to me. I wonder if it's due to the cold. His hands collide with my hair and I groan slightly at the loveliness of the sensation.

"The rooftop!" Nightwing—" He called me Nightwing. How… very Tim-esque "We can't do this out here. Someone, something might see know something. Some edge. Some—" I smiled at his paranoia and leaned down to kiss him again, enjoying the feeling of his body melting to mine, and the delicate control I had over him. No, I lied to myself. The illusion of control. This boy could do anything he wanted to me and it'd be okay. My lips brushed his bruisingly, urgently, fire spilling from my veins. My hands remained firmly clasped about him, holding him close, determined to protect him from the whipping wind.


	11. Chapter 11

My bed groaned gently under my weight, eliciting a frown from my still half-puckered lips. I'm not that heavy, am I? I need to go look in the mirror. Get the tongs—measure my body fat. 4? Too high—that's not right. Oh I wasn't thinking and did the math wrong. Come on brain, stimulate and fire. Don't make me get a calculator and embarrass myself in front of my reflection-- fuck it. I didn't care anymore. I fell back into the sea of blankets, though the cold didn't faze me, body still buzzed with warmth. He had thanked me for walking him home. Walking—I don't mean walking. Flying. Leaping. Helping him change out of his way-too complicated uniform, letting the moon scrape over the fine lines of his abdomen and collarbones, letting my teeth scrape over my lip as I kissed him once more before vanishing into the shadows. I hope he's sleeping well. I turned over to my side and drowned in unconsciousness like a dead man.

I always wake up before my alarm goes off, but only by seconds. My hand lashes out and presses the irritating button before it emits that horrible noise. I suppose it's effective either way, then. My morning ritual consists of lying in bed for a few minutes after that—two, to be precise. 20 minutes in the shower _before_ going to the third floor. Then another hour _after_ training. Breakfast was egg whites with bits of tomatoes in them, oatmeal and orange juice. It wasn't breakfast time yet though. I go to the rooftop to do my morning yoga. The phone comes with me, dragging itself behind me like a dog on a leash. Why was I bringing it? That defeated the purpose of yoga—outside contact with other human beings. _Tim…_Sunlight pierces my eyelids, the rays knocking on my brain, telling me to focus as I balance on the ledge, blood rushing to my brain in the dizziness of being upside down. Ringing. What is that ringing—I almost stumble but never fall. The phone. I'm glad I brought it up here—No, Dick. You're not glad. Don't be glad, that's unlike you—but what if it's him?

The phone was cool and sleek against my ear, hand shaking slightly from the sheer task of supporting myself on just the one, balancing in the cool of the morning. Blood clouded my eyes. I thought of Alice in Wonderland.

"T-- hello?" I almost barked it, eager and excited. I had still forgotten to screen the call.

"Hello boy wonder. why do you sound so happy?" Dissapointment dealt a swift blow to my abdomen and I could no longer focus, so I descended off the edge gracefully, grateful to see the world right-side up once more. Barbara called every so often to check in on me. I was usually glad for her concern but today it simply annoyed me. I saw a figure on a rooftop in the distance. My eyes followed his pacing upon and down, squinting, my first hope in vain. Had I really sounded happier? I suppose I am happier. Happier is simply a comparison. I'm happier than I was after Kory left, but not happier than I was last night. On the contrary I'm much more melancholy than last night. Last night...

"Hey Babs," I was careful to guard my voice so she wouldn't pick up anything unusual. "How are you?" Chirp. Chirp.

"You know, everything's the same. Bruce came by the other night. You haven't been by in a while, what's going on?" Hmm, why hadn't I been by? I came by a week or so ago, didn't i? No, I was busy that night... and the past few nights... hmm.

"I'm sorry, I'll come by soon!" God that was so campy. I feel like i'm back in the short-shorts.

"There's that happiness again." she laughed. "you sound like you're in love, and I would know." I froze. What? In love? What'd she know? I shook my head.

"You're crazy Barbara. Listen, I have to go." She chirped on for a moment but i didn't really hear it. With a click, I was gone.


	12. Chapter 12

Bludhaven-- where had the name come from? Haven implies sanctuary, a refuge. Safety. The connotations are undeniable, but this city is so fucked up. Who finds refuge in Bludhaven? Blood-haven. Oh, I get it. It's a haven for gore and violence and crime-- the perfect place to raise your family. I adjust my goggles for a better view of the docks. A large ship had come in supposedly shipping goods from overseas, just your basic stuff. Not in Bludhaven. Goods. Opiates. Barbituates. Cocaine. Enough alcohol to torch a small town. Household goods. I snorted and laughed from the security of the rooftop. Soon the illusion of safety would melt away and I'd near the fray, trying desperately to stop a deal that would surely go down another night in another place. You can only do so much. What exactly would somebody lose trying to end this? When I fight, my body is in danger, sure. Bones, muscles, tissue, spinal chord, ribcage, skull... Broken bones aren't a problem; even paralysis (then Babs and I would be on the same level again though she'd also be taller than I once more-- do short people connect better than most people?). A gunshot might kill me, might not, but we all die someday. I closed my eyes, trying briefly to conjure up the memory of being shot. My hand went involunarily to my shoulder, reliving the vivid experience in slow motion; the sure tearing of flesh followed by sinew and muscle, the agony of blood flow accelerating and then ceasing. I adjust my goggles again to get a better view.

I shivered, half from exhileration. This is why I was addicted to the job. Barbara stopped understanding this after her accident: I'm a workaholic. I give new meaning to the term workaholic, but it's not because I have to do anything. I have no cubicle or computer or even the security of a dental plan. I love my job and I hate it. It's not mandatory but to my messed up conscience and notion of goodness, it is. I love the excitement, the poison sugar of adrenneline flying through my body. I inhale, a painted smile upon my face as i think of the coming conflict. For a moment, all is quiet. The world is still and has stopped moving. The clouds are frozen in various formations. Cumulus. Nimbus. When I was younger I tried to put them into definite shapes. Bunny. Dog. Dinosaur. Batarang. Woman. That's how my life progressed. I look at them now and vaguely detect the shape of a certain bird. Then the silence is shattered as I realize i'm no longer alone on the rooftop. Somebody has invaded my privacy and my body tenses, trying to figure out if it's friend or foe. Fight or flight (though i would never choose the latter). The sound of fabric fluttering in the harsh breeze usually associated with salt water assaults my ears and I relax. This all happens within a fraction of a second. A caped-crusader. I do not care who it is at the moment, and go back to watching my prey.

Finally the momentary haze that had come over me lifts and i see the world through new eyes. suddenly it is more than just that dock and those badly-dressed men carting crates of harmful substances. Another human being is here with me, sharing the air i'm breathing, fighting the same fight i'm about to engage in. The least they deserve is recognition, acknowledgment.

"Little bird to ally: report status." A soft whisper came from the darkness behind me. Now he was next to me. I laughed mentally and thought of small birds: swallows, blue jays, cardinals, blackbirds, robins. robins... hmm.

"Nightwing here." My voice was gravel-ly and soft to match his tone. I turned; it was him, just as I'd expected, secretly hoped for. We'd both come here completely dutifully, yet we both knew full well the high chances of meeting here. It's been four days. I wonder what he's thinking.

"Observations?" the command his soft voice had was impeccable, and I saw his profile in the darkness, cape floating in the wind.

"Most of the men are inside the ship, unloading cargo from the inside out. They're all heavily armed-- guess they've heard of me. There are 12 men stationed on the deck of the ship with guns, waiting and watching. Only four men are actually close to the water. We should split up, surprise is essential." I glared into the water ahead of me, pondering escape routes.

"Nightwing, you forgot to add the truck into the equation. It's imperative to take out the drivers so that they won't be able to (a) call for back up or (b) drive away with any goods they might already have." I turned and stared at him hard, admiring the wholeness of his thoughts though realizing he hadn't actually gone very close to the situation.

"Little brother, you have not see into the truck yet. You see the silhouette of men? They've been waiting there for 2.5 hours. They will wait until the ship is entirely unloaded-- i bugged the place so I heard this. What you don't see is that i already knocked those two men out." my hand fingers my gauntlets, now shy a few gas pellets. He is silent, though i hear the grinding of enamel upon enamel. I put a hand on his shoulder.

"What's the plan, Robin?" i ask, allowing him to take control. He flinches.

"You know that dosen't need any discussion, Nightwing. We both know which side will be most beneficial for us and we're both aware of the others abilities so it's more important to have silent understanding than risk compromising our plan." I sigh, trying to think of a way to renew his confidence. If he second guesses himself at a crucial moment, he could get himself seriously injured. My hand continues to rest upon his shoulder, motionless for a few moments before beginning a reassuring rub.

"You'll take the men on the outside and on deck, then, little brother?" I try to make my tone as confident and carefree as possible considering the tense situation. He flinches once more and i withdraw my hand. I take a deep breath, peering once more through my goggles into the dark bowels of the ship that waited for me like the depths of Hell, full of desperate men and hot lead. My hand quivered for a moment longer on Tim's shoulder before i stood up, on the edge of the roof, looking down. Seven stories. No problem.

"Ready?" I didn't wait for an answer before plunging straight down. I could smell the foul odor of sea water, bad cologne, and alcohol from the building. It was so close to the ship that the acrid air burned my nose as I plumetted down and swung silently into the depths of the ship, hearing muffled yells of panic outside as i assumed Tim had made his move. Inside the hatch was dimly lit, and a barrage of men fumbled with their weapons upon hearing the cues outside, some in the middle of loading crates with bricks of cocaine. I could not use gas for risk of knocking myself out, and was forced to resort to direct combat. The sound of skulls cracking to my knowledgable fingers followed after a few men tumbled to attacks upon well-placed pressure points on their necks and shoulders. My ears perked up at the sound of gunfire richoting off the steel of the ship and i tensed immediately, out of sight, evading the deadly shots. They soon figured out the danger of this folly as one of the men cried out in pain, apparently having caught a stray bullet in the arm. I decended upon them like the shadow of death, finding myself in the middle of a great circle of savages, hooting with anger and threatening blows with various pipes, knives, crow bars and even a blow torch. The beast within me smirked.

More men kept coming still, like a great swarm, so many i lost count as they descended upon me like hungry locusts. My attuned muscles moved before I did, fluidly and rapidly I jumped, dodging blows from fists and metal, while simulatenously my heavily clad feet connected with the jaws, sturnums, noses, and various other parts of the men closest to me, my legs extending, muscles contracting, and expanding, whirling rapidly like some desperate dancer or wild spinning top. This was anything but choatic for me, however. My body was one thing I had complete control over. I watched the scene unfold almost outside of myself-- i have something close to an out of body experience when i fight. The air moves with heat, the men in slow motion, trying futily to grab me, though I simply jump just out of their reach each time, extending my hand or fist, striking each one rapidly in sucession and then retreating like a cobra. My hands fly to my back, fingering my weapon of choice: escrima sticks of an unshatterable polymer. I wield these deadly objects faster than even my hands, smashing the noses and eyesockets of four men nearest me, relishing their screams of agony. I make sure to bring the blows down smoothy and neatly, breaking bones but not yielding compound fractures to make sure the men don't bleed to death. I launched myself into the air, narrowly avoiding a switchblade that made its way towards my sternum. I sneered and grabbed the owner's wrist, twisting it until i heard the satisfying snap.

I hear a loud yell and realize Tim has joined my little adventure. The men's heads turn as well as my own, momentarily-- a costly mistake. In seconds 5 men swarm on me, one managing to kick me in the lower back as another's knife barely grazes my skin before I jump to safety. I make a small noise as the wind is knocked out of me, and my growl of irritation is evident: they'd really done it now. I whirl around, hearing the clank of metal to a skull, seeing, to my horror, Tim's body slumping lifeless on the floor. My eyes flush with bloody anger as the blades in my fingertips come out in true panter style, slashing all those near me, almost not taking care to avoid the jugular. I wanted to kill, rage flooding my vision. MY reflexes doubled as i cut a swathe through the men, wading admist the sea to retrieve Tim's passed-out form. I could see a tiny amount of blood dripping from his head wound to his sharp forehead. The rest of the men fell quickly, almost instantaneously. I could hear police sirens in the distance: somebody'd no doubt heard the gunshots and reported something. Good, now I can take care of more important business. I picked Tim up, slinging him over my shoulder, and exited the boat amidst a sea of men laying on the ground, immobile like a mass grave. I stepped over their bodies with disgust, eager to get the young boy home and tend to his wound. I pray it's not a concussion. It was difficult to carry two so far with my grappling hook so i fished Tim's keys out of his utility belt-- luckily i knew where he kept his things-- and placed him gently into the seat of his car. The engine purred as i started it and drove back home, one hand resting on the shoulder of the boy beside me. Tim looks like an angel when he sleeps-- you can't see the pale fire in his eyes. I carried him up the flights of stairs in the darkness, grateful the city had gone to bed by then, and laid him upon my bed as quietly as I could.

I watch Tim shift upon the bed, muttering a small prayer of thanks that he's awake. He sits up and immediately slumps back down-- a bad sign, his eyes not yet adjusted to the light. He can't see me and i enjoy the stealth and power i've over him somewhere in the darkness of my skull. i hear him cough and see him shiver-- he is cold /and/ injured, damn it. I make a mental note to turn on the heat soon. He shivers harder and i put a hand on his shoulder, pressing him down, applying a warm cloth to his head where the blood has clotted and turned thicker and darker.

"Lie down, little brother. You're safe here." My hand involuntarily strokes his cheek. He makes a small gurgled noise as his hand struggle with his uniform. Our skin brushes and i shudder-- his fingers are like ice.

"Help me," he whispers, so forlorn and needy and unlike him. My heart shatters as though made of glass, each time it pounds upon my ribcage. My hands move slowly over his form, unzipping and unclasping everything, placing his utility belt, gauntlets, cape, and boots on the floor and the night table. The rest gets folded neatly on a chair beside us. His staff is already against the wall-- i removed it when we got here. The smooth alabaster of his bare skin is striking, illuminated in the darkness. My hands tremble and work their way over his naked torso, caressing the skin before hiding his body once again with warm blankets. I bite my lip and disappear, going to turn up the heat and start the tea kettle.

I return to my room finding the bundle of human being and blankets has shifted. He's still cold and i curse the heating system for not warm up faster. MY heart palpitates like a hummingbird's--for a moment i believe it's going to shatter the glass of my chest and burst out like a small bird-- as i pull of my shirt, biting the inside of my mouth as is my habit when I'm resolved. Then i pull the covers open just enough to slide between them and wrap my arm around the cold mass of marble perfection that is Timothy shivering beneath the down. I press my warm body against his, afraid he can hear my wildly crooning heart.

"I'm sorry for tonight." He whispers, fear and regret creeping into his voice. I wrap my arms more tightly about him as though worried some devils will rip through the walls and tear him away. MY little bird... the words slip through my lips, accidentally though undoubtedly audible. He had to have heard me. I froze and cleared my throat, lips pressed partially against his neck, depositing warmth on it with my breath.

"You did nothing wrong, little brother." his body fits so inexplicably perfectly with mine. "I'm just glad you're okay." So glad. His body is a tangled messed up mass of wounded bones and bloodied fur. He reminds me of an aching alpha wolf and my eyes burn with pain for him.

"Can I have something for my head?" I know how humiliating this must be to him. Pain relievers- why hadn't i thought of that before? I smack myself mentally and hop out of bed quickly, rushing to retrieve some aspirin and a glass of water. The tea kettle hisses and spits at me, further marking my forgetful indignation. I make him a cup of tea and carry it all to the bedroom, sitting beside him, holding the glass of water and two aspirin out.

"Here, Tim." I offer him the pills. He takes them and swallows before the water hits his lips. I cringe-- i hate swallowing pills without something to help them down. He sits up and i glance at the perfection of his chest, fingers itching to touch the smooth skin.

"How about some clothes now?" huh? His voice breaks my mental enrapturement and i shake my head. I climb into the bed once more, pulling his body close to mine, molding us together.

"you don't need them right now," I found myself saying to my own surprise. "You're not going anywhere." The words resound in my brain, soft and final, as my grip tightens around him.

"How would wearing clothes better enable one to go somewhere when the only places one can go are in the confines of a private apartment where nudity is not frowned upon?" I pull my face from his neck, a half smile scrawled upon my features, broadening like the approaching sunrise. His hands are wedged between my thighs-- by accident i'm sure-- and i pull them out, still cold.

"You've poor circulation." I push each fingertip to my lips, feeling the frayed skin (can skin be frayed or is that just my imagination?) to the softness of my mouth. My warm breath traps his digits one by one before i take them sequentially into the heat of my mouth, hoping to warm him. The taste of salt is most prominent upon my tongue as i massage it over the grooves of each finger, feasting upon the recipient's shudders. How different it is from kissing him, i mused. It's amazing how Tim is so sweet to the taste with his sharp, sometimes bitter words and yet his hands, his wonderful beautiful hands remind me of salt water taffy. This made me want to kiss him again, to sample the difference between the two once more. My eyes adjusted to the darkness quickly, irises sinking into the lack of light that was common in my life. Sometimes I wonder if God transplanted my eyes for those of a cat, but then I remember white cats with blue eyes are deaf and I am not. In the dark, Tim's body is illuminated. I see clearly his inquiring, shuddering facial expression as he pulls away and sits up. Is it pleasure or disgust or a mix of both? Confusion.

"Why are you sucking on my fingers?" I almost wince at the directness of the question and pull away as well. His fingers traverse his scalp, wriggling through his thick straight hair like a jungle of tar. My own hand finds my head and makes its way nervously through my hairline. Why was i doing that? The answers were obvious: for warmth, of course. Then there were the more subtle, unsettling ones.

"I-- to keep you warm. I am sorry, i overstepped my bounds." It was a simple statement, a plain apology in response to his plain question. I almost said 'accusation' but thought better of it. I handed him the tea. "This should help your head and warm you up." There. Problem solved, awkward situation reverted. I couldn't get the taste of salt off my tongue.

"I didn't mind, of course, it was working after all." his lips form into a sneer as he cringes away from the tea cup. I sigh, almost as though the herbal water came from two insicions on my own wrists and he was rejecting me. I make my way slowly through the jungle of tangled sheets and blankets, allowing my feet to be assaulted by the cold air as they hit the wooden floor.

"you should really get some rest, little brother." I pause, turning to smile reassuringly at him. He nods and I remove myself from the bed, stalking towards the pinprick of light that is the bedroom door. I throw it open and am immediately released from the tension that'd thickened the air in the room. The cushions of the couch have never been as soft and inviting as they are right now-- they seem to open their cavernous mouths and beckon me. I'm hallucinating. I let the couch monsters devour me as I sit upon them and turn on the news, closing my eyes.

Inside my head there is a dark hall where i let myself wander, spying the ghosts of the past drifting along the crevices that must be my cerebrum. As I weave in and out of the maze of synapses, Bruce smiles at me-- a pure fantasy on my part. I try to think back to a time Bruce'd truly smiled at me but it was lost in the midst of various people. Roy... Garth... Kory... Barbara... Barbara. Was that even real? Did we ever love eachother? I know the pain was real, the ache in my heart that felt like it'd been sliced with a white-hot knife. Was I really in love? Yes, love. Breathing the breath of the divine, somebody'd once described it as. Maybe it was Babs. Her red hair flickered suddenly to black and I thought of the boy slumbering upon my sheets. What do little robins dream of when they have nothing? Do they want the world? A voice sang in my head, taunting me with memories of my dreams and the realization that they're not distant at all but very recent. I wonder if Tim really hears my words or if he's interpreted them far before the chemicals have even rushed to my brain, before i'm electrified with an idea. The creaking of the bedroom door opening rips me from my thoughts and my eyes fly open, bright as though doused with chemical lights.

Surprise roots me to my seat as i turn and watch Tim stagger to the couch. Stagger is the proper word, for he fumbles and holds onto the walls for support as though stabbed. He tries to smile at me but the effort cracks in half in the middle and his mouth stumbles off his face in the meantime. Oh no, what if he /was/ stabbed? I flinch and resist the urge to pull his shirt off and examine his torso-- stop being an idiot, Dick. I face him, his features aglow in the dim light of the room, and examine his features, frowning as my eyes pick up traces of cuts and scrapes here and there. He'd really gotten a number done on him tonight.

My worried hands cascaded over his face, pressing gently to his argyle cheekbones and then against his jaw, checking for broken bones.

"What are you doing up?" My voices finds its way to my mouth and falls out from my dry lips.

"The news sounded interesting enough to watch." His answer jabbed at something sharp inside me and i had to laugh, my hand falling from his delicate features. The laughter warmed my guts momentarily and i was grateful.

"The news is always interesting, little brother." A smile still played upon my face. "But you should be resting." Worry for his injured body came flooding back.

"We've all had worse. I'm not in any great danger relaxing with you on the couch am I?" Something inside of me grew hotter and hotter upon that remark as it culminated in a broad sly smile sneaking onto my features. The glow of the TV ignited his skin like any moonlight, streaking it with pale tiger spots. His body shifted the tiniest bit closer but my keen senses picked it up. A doe being stalked by a panther. My kestrel prey.

"Oh, I don't know about that..." The words slipped from my lips and i cursed my natural instincts, biting the inside of my cheek in regret.

"You won't beat me to a bloody pulp--so I don't consider it any danger." He was testing the waters. It wasn't as if i hadn't considered beating him up before-- smashing in that delicate nose of his and shattering the eye sockets. Murder is the greatest form of love. Flattery, rather. Flattery, i assure myself. My hand makes its way up the slope of his spine and nestles itself in his hair, stroking it gently.

"Still, little brother. You know rest would be best for you."

"I think relaxing my muscles before rest is best actually." He is always contrary. I frown but my body is more forgiving, hands moving instead to his shoulders, kneading out the boulders that made themselves evident under the smooth skin and hard muscle.

"Of course." His strong hands float like ghosts to my neck, wrapping each slender finger upon my skin until it seeps into the flesh. His face follows. I see it descending upon my own, cool and angular, resting just shy of directly upon mine. I feel his warmth breath on my lips and gulp involuntarily. He was dangerously close and my head began to swim. I bite my tongue to suppress it from slipping out. To lick my lips now would surely be to touch his. It happens anyway as time slows and i find myself pressing my mouth to his, supping from his small exhales, drinking in the smell and the taste of him once more. His lips envelope mine, cushioning my weight as i press myself naturally upon him, devouring my kill. I feel his body shudder in pain as his hands slink up into my hair, exciting the sensitive skin of the scalp so that i shiver and twitch slightly, emptying each air and noise into the depths of his throat. My hands snake around his waist and over his back, careful not to touch his battered body. The urge to protect him coupled with the desire to overtake him mingles and metamorphosed into something new as i push myself against him and over his body, which looks so small in its wounded state. My lips once again find the sweet refuge of his mouth, exhaling with pleasure as each nerve ending is stimulated by his gentle caresses. My own movements become more agitated as my canines sink gently into his soft lip, tugging and tasting the flesh like ripened fruit between my teeth. I hope i do not hurt him.

His body seems as eager as mine, youthful vigor flooding his veins like sugar as he tumbles back into the cushions and i creep on top of him as naturally as i would lay in bed at night and sleep. Small droplets of blood form on his lip and i lick them gently, savoring the flavor of metal and Tim. A growl sets itself in my throat like an angry dog, though it is anything but anger as I feel his sharp hips digging into mine. The hands weaving through my hair are blissful distractions. My prying tongue pushes his lips apart wantingly, invading the hot crevice of his mouth. At times i curse my probing, aching body and carnal desires, chiding myself mentally yet not doing anything to remedy my actions.

I weave through the minefield of actions and reactions: hips bucking, twisting, writhing, tasting, sucking. My mind attempts to sort everything out but is lost in a sea of hormones and chemicals secreted by my pancreas. somewhere in the utter blind passion of the situation my hands find their way to his belt buckle, swiftly unclasping it, having failed to previously note that he was even dressed. This is frustrating. My fingertips work effortlessly upon the lone button protecting him from my prying grasp. My other hand slithers up the vulnerable opening at the mouth of his shirt and waistband, feeling the hot skin prickle to my fingertips as goosebumps explode upon its surface. The satisfying sound of the metallic zipper yielding to me earns applause from my mind as I momentarily relish in conquering the evil technology of the pants, half glad that Tim didn't grab my wrist and twist it painfully. There is a small gasp on his part,

"Dick..." The word resounds in my mind, making its way through my ear like a delicious breeze as Tim's hips bucks against my traveling hand and its slow torturous pace. My other hand travels along the railroad track of his abdomen, stopping just short of its destination of his throat to make the skin tingle from the feeling of my claws raking his chest. Then my hand attaches itself to his airway and squeezes gently: i'd learned in a short time that he enjoyed this and was proven right as my other hand, having freed itself of the confines of the pesky pants, encountered his extreme arousal. He moans and struggles and i glance up at him to find fear written all over his features. Immediately and silently i withdraw, pulling back to the other side of the couch quickly and pulling a nearby blanket over him simulatenously in one fluid, regretful movement.

A shudder of regret and denial passes over the both of us and the moment is mutually erased from our memories-- at least on the surface. I looked down at him, fumbling with his pants. I had done that, i'd encited the blood boiling just below the surface of his pure skin, taunting me with the sin i'd committed. He looked so angelic and violated. violated. I'd violated him. The word stung my body and my mouth began to taste bitter. I'd taught myself to keep from crying long ago by pinching the skin between my thumb and forefinger-- the pressure point activated my parasympathetic nervous system and helped me relax until i could do it without touching the magic point at all. I bit my lip, however, as it was almost not enough this time. What had I done? There were laws against these things-- social, moral, internal, criminal, fraternal; names for things like this, people like me. Pedophile. Sick, disturbed, convicted and doomed to spend eternity in the prison of his mind. Tim moved close to me, resting his innocent head upon my shoulder and i felt dirty, dirtier even than i felt the previous minute, the pressure of his cranium upon my tired, humiliated hump of a skeleton allowing me to imagine the buzzing going on in his brain right now-- how he would never trust me again, how disgusted he must feel. I twitched, aching to shower 20 times over until my skin was raw and bloody, aching to bolt and wash myself clean of the exprience. I would say my Hail Marys 666 times until my biorhythms began to pump with the natural motions of my words and they became like a synchronized song-- my heart would pump a prayer each time it beat. God, what've I done? I look down, unable to face him.

His arms worked themselves around me, pressing ever closer. Keep away from the monster, I wanted to tell him. Let the beast have peace in his cage.

"Big brother, it's okay." His voice was soft and childlike. I'd almost ripped the throat out of this child. Big Brother? I'm not your brother, Tim. I'm something sick and low, something with venom in its gums, hidden away until succulent prey comes along and then it oozes out uncontrollably. Oh Tim.

"Gotta let it happen sometime." The last comment burns my heart, and i can feel it smashing and welling up inside my chest. Love isn't just something you give away, sex isn't just something-- god i can't use that word, it's disgusting right now. It's yours, Tim, you keep it, and god don't let me have any of it, keep it away from me. Keep your crystals and your salvation away from those of us in the suicide woods, Dante. I choked a bit.

"You're so much more precious than that," the words welled up in me like a fount, spurting out in tiny gasps. "It doesn't just 'happen.'" I wanted to protect him but bile rose up in the depths of me as it dawned that he was in the most danger from the predator known as Richard John Grayson.

"It's not like it didn't mean anything to me" His wounded voice bruises my ears and this time the tears spill over the dam of my eyes and stream along my cheeks.

"Oh, that's not-- Tim..." I reach out to stroke his face. He pulls me close and I wish we were cavemen frozen in ice, alive in this moment forever. I inhale the soft musky scent of him, melting to the security of his arms. His roman nose pushes against my forehead in an almost painful way, like an alert, making his presence known. I smiled despite myself. He'd seen me crying, I know, and I knew the effects of that sight would be irreversible. I didn't deserve to be so close to him, we shouldn't be touching…

"You mean a lot to me," I croaked, hoping it was loud enough for his elfin ears to hear. His body froze a bit and i wondered why.

"You mean—much to me." His voice was hollow and robotic but I knew that was Tim's excuse when he couldn't find the right words. I wonder what the rights words are. I hadn't considered his feelings for me before, I was too goddamn bogged down in all the shit. How could I be so selfish—god I'm still being selfish now.

"Much?" I allowed my head to raise a fraction and look upon his stony features. From this angle he looks like a beautiful stone gargoyle guarding the purity of a church against evil, and I was knocking at his door.

"I have feelings." He was avoiding the question and once again my body told me to kiss him. No—I can't do that. I cursed myself, unnoticing my rebellious hand that'd floated to his face and was caressing his jaw like a lover.

"Tim… " I knew how to begin but I wasn't sure how to finish. My feelings erupted from me like a hot volcano, destroying the landscape of his features. "I want to know what this means to you. How you feel, more than just generic babble. This is worth more than generic. This is something. This---" I kissed him once more, I couldn't help myself. I'm so sick.

Dick, naiveté aside, I find myself beyond infatuation. Beyond enchantment. My feelings for you are more than any feelings I've felt before and what that means isn't quite clear. It means a lot." His words sank into my skin and my tongue scraped against my mouth like wet sandpaper. Of course he'd considered it before.

"It's okay to hold back if you want to." I kissed him again, attempting to elicit more from deep within his soul, pulling it out into myself from his lovely mouth.

"Dick..." He stops to consider something as I pull away. I can see the worm of a statement wriggling behind his forehead. "I'm not sure what it means but it appears to be a very important thing. I think I love you." The words bludgeon me like a sledgehammer that forces me away from him, pulling me from our embrace like a magnet of conflict and turmoil. Love—was that the word that'd split his tongue apart and scalded my ears with its intensity and heat? He loves me. I shudder and cringe as my insides twists into knots bathed in sulfuric acid; I can taste it coming up my throat, burning the lining of my esophagus. I look up into those eyes like the night sky clouded with confusion and adolescent pain. My eyelids shut to the world of reality as I count backwards from ten, hoping the moment will dissolve when I open my eyes once more and I'll be somewhere safer, happier—like a mental institution maybe. It isn't working—Tim is still there when I return from my trip into my twisted mind, waiting for a response from me, but I cannot find the words. I cannot find any words at all; they've escaped my brain, floated away in a sea of "I love you." Do I love Tim? God, I don't even know what love means anymore. Is it what I feel for Bruce, what I felt for Barbara, for Kory? Is any of that real or is it simply a fabrication of the mind like anything else. Being in love makes your brain react about the same way as being on a very addictive drug. Was I addicted to Tim? Yes. I shake my head, unable to deny it. Black hair coats my face like a protective veil and I'm grateful for the space between my skull to sort things out but it feels like everything will just bust out from my head; there isn't enough room for everything right now and suddenly I get a splitting headache. I rub my temples, begging to be free from this terse, uncomfortable situation but in vain. Tim is here and I have to say something to him. This poor boy had fallen in love with me, so purely, so quickly, for all the wrong reasons. I'm not something to love, I'm a wretched creature wrapped up in my affairs and my misery.

Thousands of words flooded my brain but none that I could string together into a coherent sentence. I hadn't considered being in love with Tim. I mean, I'd considered the possibility but I hadn't come to a conclusion: I know I'm in not love with him, but I could be. God, what's wrong with me? I look at him wrapped up in the blanket like a wounded dove and think of my activities moments before, days before, two months ago… Christ, I took advantage of him. I abused my power over him. He got up to go the kitchen—for a moment I was afraid he was leaving but he came back and sat down as far from me as possible, as though being close to me stung. I don't blame him. I know the vulnerability you feel at his age, the hurt and the feeling of rejection. _She'd laughed when I told her how I felt… _The agony he must be experiencing. I kept myself from looking into his pain-filled eyes, unable to handle it. You're such a fucking coward, Dick. You're a bastard, leading him on. He wants me to love him back…Why had I allowed this to happen, to continue? Why didn't I control myself—I can't have feelings for him. He's a colleague, a partner. He's my fucking little brother, and he's 16, Dick. Sixteen. That's statutory rape. What would Bruce say if he found out—oh God. More words come: Outcast, rapist, pedophile, sick, abusive. Christ he's a virgin, I'd forgotten he was a virgin. I remembered minutes ago when I'd touched him and he'd shuddered--- I forced myself on him, he didn't want me. God. Having your first sexual experience with somebody of your own sex. I'd probably screwed him up for life. Oh God. Oh God. My mind reels and finally some words sputter out of the mess.

"I… I have to go." I run my hands through my thick hair, trying to smooth the tempest of my mind. "I can't be here right now, I'm sorry. You stay, feel free. I'll go. I just have to go." I grab my coat and escape out the door into the cool night without a backwards glance.


	13. Chapter 13

I had to get out of there—Babs was getting sick of me. I've been sleeping at her place for over a week now. I'm really grateful to her—some of her loyalty from the old days collected and she didn't tell anybody I was there. I heard Tim calling her a few times but chose those moments to conveniently disappear into the night. Barbara doesn't ask many questions; at least, she stopped after I didn't answer them. She's quiet enough, though our fumbling is a bit awkward around each other. Inside my body there were whirlpools that were only quieted by the brief stabs of combat and blissful forgetfulness the mask offered me. I went out for hours at a time now, from the moment the sun went down until the early hours of the morning, starving my body and trying to dissipate the part of my brain that held the memories of him. I racked my mind for something to do and simply got a headache. It's time to talk to Bruce, I realized, making up my mind and heading for the manor, considering briefly cloaking myself in the security of the mask but deciding against it; I was going as Dick, not Nightwing. I love long drives. The rush of the air outside passing my window purified the fumes from the cars in front of me. It's almost like falling if I just squint a bit. My insides hurt whenever I thought of the past. It seemed to jab at me from all sides, taunting me with my various regrets and grievances. How would I ever make this right? Bruce would know. Bruce always knew.

The manor was quiet and I let myself in, not expecting to run into Alfred—he was like a ghost in the vast dullness of the house, floating about from floor to floor, popping up where you least expect it. I headed to the cave where Bruce'd surely be. The dank stench of darkness and mystique was ripe in my nostrils the moment I entered, footsteps echoing.

"Bruce?" I wondered aloud, my eyes adjusting to the darkness. I could not see anybody around in the lone room, though I caught the familiar glow of my old costume, leering at me from behind the glass case where he kept it along with the others. Except _his_, of course. The golden child. I shook my head—it wasn't time for that now. I walk around and search more—perhaps I simply hadn't spotted him yet. I paced around the cave, touching its cool stone walls, hoping to find Bruce. I ran a frustrated hand through my hair.

"Where are you, Bruce?" I spoke to nobody as I stood in front of the giant computer screen, which towered over me, dwarfing me. I didn't complain—I was used to it, not being very tall as it is. Most people don't know it but Babs is taller than me, not by much, but don't think she ever lets me forget it. I looked to his empty computer chair, standing alone and erect as though it were accessing his secret databases all by itself. I touched the back of it and spun it around in aggravation, completely bewildered and half horrified to see Tim scrunched up in the chair, appearing like some haunting spirit come to scare my hair to whiteness. My eyes flickered with surprise, a small hiss passing my lips. His arms were crossed in defensive stance, teeth clenched. The severity of his position made me wince inside. There was a noticeable sheen in the air as though light reflected off the shield of ice I detected around him. I'd been too preoccupied to realize he was even there. I don't like to be caught off guard, and I growled softly in my throat.

"Tim—" I faltered, a frown bubbling beneath my brow. "Where is Bruce?" It was a stupid thing to say in light of everything that's happened but it was all I could come up with at the moment.

"Day time business." His response was curt and sharp, cutting my soft lips with its sheer force. I knew Tim was cold but he'd never been this cold to me. Little brother... I wanted to reach out to him and I'm sure my hurt shone through my eyes like a beacon. I am also sure he won't care. And why should he? I was the one who… I sigh and bite my lip, hard. This was going to be difficult. Was there anything still behind that hard exterior or had in the inside simply evaporated—or worse, been smashed up by my thoughtless actions? I want to take him up into my arms and apologize but of course I do not.

Instead I nod, "do you know when he'll be back?" I sound so small, I do not like letting anybody overtake me like this. He turns away from me with a shake of his head and the sheer intense indifference and rejection of that move makes my retinas shatter, pupils dilating. I feel blind and drowning, eyes blurred with tears. God, I missed his warmth. He turns back around, his posture is completely reminiscent of Bruce and I cringe momentarily.

"If you would like to wait for Bruce it's advisable to wait in the study. Alfred knows when he'll be back." The sheer robotic quality of his voice in juxtaposition to his usual crisp softness kills me. He was suggesting _I_ leave—me, to whom this place belonged as much as it did to him—more so, for I was officially, legally Bruce's son. Who was I kidding? Tim and Bruce were more alike than him and I. Tim is more Bruce's son than I ever was. Bruce's true son is the one who'd refuse adoption. A sneer worked itself upon my pained features and I struggled to eradicate it.

"I can wait here." I cross my arms; waiting for his next strategically placed blow to my sternum, sharpness penetrating through the armor of my skeleton to my soft, bruised heart. I cannot keep the sparkling of a teary oasis out of the desert of my otherwise barren eyes.

"How's Barbara?" His defenses were melting, little by little, though I knew once you got through the ice, there would be a wall of stone. I sighed. Barbara… she's crippled, she isn't mine anymore. Either of those things are something I wanted to declare.

"She's fine. She's Barbara. She's always fine." The words came out sharper than I'd meant them to but I realize that if he wanted to play that game, we could. I grew up here, Tim. I know how to be cold and unfeeling. I know how to shut down. I'm the fucking original boy wonder. Don't fuck with me. My shoulders slump and I sigh—I can't hurt him like that, my little bird. My little boy—Jesus. Mine. Christ. I love you. My eyes widened with god knows how many chemicals—I must just be malnourished. He stands and moves away from me and my body naturally comes close to his, breathing almost on his neck. I close my eyes, trying to sear into the back of his skull with my eyes, bore a hole through his head where his brains'll leak out so I can see what he's thinking and feeling. His posture indicates that he's conceded the dominant position to me, at least for the moment. My hand brushes his shoulder and I hold my breath, oxygen caught in my lungs, rapidly caving into carbon dioxide. The race was dizzying—would I succumb to unconsciousness before we spoke again. Fine, God, I'll give into your divine plan.

"I missed you." I whisper, soft and alien words echoing the darkness. He scoffs and looks at me with unmistakable scorn—I doubt sinners felt this much fire and hate in the bowels of hell. I am a sinner. I forgot.

"Dick, I don't want this from you." I am hurt, his words slice like blades but rightfully. He wishes to have nothing more to do with me. He stands, inches from my face but it's nothing close to romantic—it is Pluto from romance. The tension and confrontation sting my weakened body until I almost collapse.

"I understand, Robin." Impersonal, we can't be friends anymore. We can't be close as of anymore. I destroyed the foundation of our relationship and now it came crumbling down around me. I am left weeping in the ruins of us, brother. I bite my lip so hard, blood courses down the side of my mouth. I turn around and wipe my mouth so he doesn't see anything. If I feel and he notices, he may be hurt once more. I cannot keep hurting him; I wish to hurl myself into the pitch-black pit. He doesn't want anything from me anymore.

"Dick…" I heard him inhaling, breathing wavering. "I don't blame you for leaving. In fact, I commend you. I would have left too." I shudder briefly and spin around, lightning quick, hair whipping against my unstable face with unstable features. I looked at this small trembling boy hiding behind the Robin mantle.

"Oh, Tim…" I pull him close instinctively, my arms wrapping themselves around his waist with the little strength they've left. A surge of adrenaline is enough to complete my vice-like grip, since I know he'll try to pull away. My face is buried in his hair, his scent lulls me to a calm comatose state, keeping me from tears that were blurring my vision. My hair is a mask, my tears are a mask. I let them fall as everything left separating us falls as well. His name is upon my lips like a prayer, falling from my mouth repeatedly. _Tim… Tim… Tim… _What was I doing here, why was I touching him again? I just kept pushing it, hurting him more and more. I felt him tremble and wince—the boy can't bear the weight of me messing up any longer. His hands are warm and strong, gliding along my back with all the grace of an ice dancer. Doesn't he realize how graceful he is? We're both trembling now, and I sneer at my own tears, my weakness. Batboys don't cry, I chided. The sensation of hands upon my stomach is minimal—he doesn't want me touching him, of course. I shouldn't be doing this but my grip only tightens. I inhale the oleander of his hair, my breath resting in the follicles like dew upon leaves. I feel like a newborn, a lamb, a twisted sick black creature allowing this boy to shoulder my responsibilities.

"I'm sorry… I'm sorry I left. I'm sorry for everything." He didn't accept apologies. He wouldn't accept this. He wouldn't accept me._ I love you. _

"It's okay. You needed to leave. I know that certain things don't run mutual and in that case we need to terminate _this_." His voice was soft as I remember it being, and his lips were doubly soft working themselves on my fine glass-cut jaw. My eyes widened, the cosmos exploding on my palette. What was he doing? He didn't stop. No, he didn't stop.

"I-I know..." My hand weaved through my hair. "But it's so hard to stop, I don't want to stop…" My voice wavered into deep whispers and I felt like a lion before a roar. "Who said they weren't mutual?" My whisper trickled down into his ear, the soft breath of my voice ruffling the small fine hair that feathered the sides of his head. He tensed and I winced as his sharpness dug into me through his jaw. I felt as though I'd been stabbed and all the poison that'd been building inside him seeped into me now.

"Your actions did." Yes, he had a point there. I am such a bastard, how could I have left him like that? I hung my head.

"I know. I'm a coward. I'm sorry. " I'd flown away in true bird style. Batboys don't apologize—when would I ever learn? Tim's a much better Robin than I ever was. He looked me straight in the eyes in true Tim style. He was every bit as heroic and gallant as the papers made him out to be. God, I love you.

"Dick--stop apologizing to me, I don't need that. You're not a coward--you were protecting yourself and what your actions said still happens to be the belief." I frowned in confusion: what did he mean?

"The belief?" You are so brave, little brother. You never cling to me but I cling to you. You are Atlas holding the weight of the world on his shoulders.

"I meant that I'm still under that same impression." His hands dance over my back—oh how I've missed his touch.

"Then allow me to remedy that." Then I did the only thing I could; I kissed him, long and deep and mournful, putting every ounce of passion my weary body could into my lips. My knees buckled to him and I grew dizzy, half from weakness, but mostly from the sheer relief of this forbidden embrace. He'd hate me for this in a minute. But he didn't seem to hate me. Instead he invited me in like a wolf from the cold, and I found refuge in his body and the way it melted to me as it always had—proof that all was not lost, that he was still Tim. Oh little brother… his warm seared me almost to blindness, and the softness of his mouth on mine made my heart beat wildly upon my hollow ribcage until it played tunes like the skeleton of a music box.

"Dick," He pulled his face from mine "you're just lonely. You don't love me." I opened my mouth to protest but it was lost once more in the affectionate heat of his lips pressed against my skin, they seemed to be everywhere at once and small mines of pleasure exploded under my skin. Love? Oh yes, yes this was love. I knew it. I was the one to pull away this time, staring hard into his eyes. I pictured myself swimming in the sheer depth and warmth of them, floating perfectly amidst his genius for all time.

"You're wrong, little brother." My thumbs attached themselves to the gentle lines outside his eyes—he'd get crows' feet when he aged. "I do." His response was to lay a devastating kiss upon my lips that blossomed to my burning skin upon his, hands slinking up his shirt and feeling the sheer heat and passion that made his body pulsate and glow, counting each delicate rib and hard muscle as it squirmed to my touch beneath the perfect flesh. You are poetry, Tim. How could I not want you? This was not carnal, as one may expect. I surprised even myself as my body's reactions were completely stifled by my stimulated mind whispering words of love over and over into my mind. Some of these phrases may have made it to the outside word as audible declarations: I didn't know nor did I care. My touch was firm yet gentle, fluidly gilding along his body, pulling off the impeding sweatshirt followed by the thin cotton t-shirt until finally the glory of his flesh came into view inch by inch until I almost melted. I loved the scent of him, the heat rising off his skin despite the cold air around us, I could practically see the ribbons of steam cascading down his body as his hands quickly stripped me of my top layers as well. I winced, and a groan of pleasure shot through my body as he sunk his sharp teeth into my flesh, attempting to devour me, perhaps to savor this moment forever, as I wanted to. Ripples of bliss pumped through the pond of my body, beginning at the top and working their way down as dopamine and hormones enriched my blood, sending shivers down my spine as Tim continued to work his teeth and lips upon my now burning skin. Excitement and arousal flooded my body, the kind I had not felt for months and I moaned, low and loud.

He's a tornado, he's a flood of passion, a natural disaster of love overwhelming me with his large quick hands that seem to be everywhere at once and that mouth.. He grinds against me and the friction on the denim of my pants is unbearable, I almost cry from agony and desire but his mouth muffles my cries, the hot serpent of his tongue sliding between my lips to ravage my mouth as he was ravaging the rest of my body and I wanted to respond but he was so quick and Christ it felt good. The mixture of sharpness and his soft demanding kisses created an unfathomable thirst within me. I bucked against him and his kisses grew deeper, hotter, hands holding me in place, molding me to his whims. Had he really never done this before? Each touch elicits a shudder or mounting groan from me until I am sticky with desire and the words spill from my lips between kisses: "I love you," my hands weave patterns in his hair, not allowing his body to be away from mine. The whole thing is a like a dance, slow and torturous. I swear he could be a professional ballerina.

I don't know what he's doing, how does he know what he's doing? He's doing terrible things to me, I want to cry out for him to stop but his mouth upon mine, receding and coming back like the ebb and flow of the tide stops me. No, I don't really want him to stop; I've never felt so helpless before. I love the dominance I've never before seen from him, his eyes clouded with something I hadn't seen before. I am a phonograph playing groans from my golden throat, hands idle and suddenly I realize what a bad lover I'm being so my hands move along his waistband, touching the deep impressions of his hips to his thighs. The clank of his quick hands releasing my belt buckle resounds throughout the cave and I gulp. His mouth is hot and passionate, unleashing lava onto my skin in blue fire and raw goose bumps. I'm burning, so aroused it hurts. Please Tim… just move your hands a bit more, god. Let him move his hands.

But he doesn't move his hands; instead I feel the heat of his mouth traveling over the rockiness of my body. I worry that my hot flesh is searing his lips and consider pushing him away, just in case the skin of his mouth will burn off but of course it doesn't. His lips are skilled and soft, of course. Tim is skilled at everything he tries. Too skilled, god. I don't even realize it but my hips are moving slowly with each flick of his tongue, breath caught in my throat as I consider the possibility of that marvelous tongue elsewhere. Jesus. A groan erupts from my lips as his hand finally touches my hot, highly sensitive skin. I blush at how aroused I am—it's hard for even me to believe it. Oh fuck, Tim's touching me, teasing me, stroking me. His tongue works its way into my parted mouth and I groan like a beast, like a machine that is stuck on repeat. His hands feel so good, my erection is leaking unbearably and I pray that he will not stop. My mouth responds to the slick warmth of his tongue, inciting a battle. My eyes roll back in my head, byproducts of the intense pleasure he was giving me. I feel this might be heaven, this can't be earthly.

"I love you," he whispers and I can't do anything but buck and groan—I belong absolutely to him, to his hot wandering hands teasing my flesh. He's playing my body like Orpheus with his lyre, drinking in the sheen of sweat upon my skin. My mouth finds it way to his neck in the darkness of my vision blurred with desire and I suck on the warm skin, groaning simply at the heavenly creamy taste. Why hadn't I done this before? Jesus, at this rate I'm going to ruin my pants forever. I don't care.

"Don't stop," I croak, voice grave with lust and love. I push my hips forward to his wanting hands. His hand continues its bliss upon me, and I'm so thankful, so thankful. The pleasure is so immense I worry that my body cannot take it and I'll simply combust. _That's what orgasms are for, Dick. _I moan at the thought and Tim's relishing it. His teeth sink into my sensitive mouth again, flushed with passion, bruised from his previous handiwork. I shudder over and over, and the heat of my entire body is like a welding torch, melting my sticky arousal to Tim's hands. They keep moving and teasing and stroking—does he know what he's doing to me. His name falls from my lips, muffled by his teeth and his animalistic passion. I've never known Tim to be so... raw, so fierce. This arouses me even more, if possible. Finally, after what seems like hors, my senses seem to have kicked in and my self-moving hands have to be forced to pull apart the obstructive fabric of his staining pants, barely bothering with buttons. I was so heated and stimulated that I could've simply shredded the material. My fingertips find the velvety skin of his erection, almost as good and soft as his groaning mouth. I run my fingers lightly along his skin but then retreat, unable to give up the intense pleasure he's giving me as of yet. Soon… Soon I'll return the favor. My mind flows to where this could lead—he's so domineering at this rate he'll be fucking me—Christ. I buck and groan so hard at the thought I worry I've ruptured my vocal chords.

"More…" I purr. "Please, more…" I've never felt so wanting, so needy in my entire life. At these words Tim's arousal twitches and I realize how much he's enjoying this power over me, the adrenaline of it. He can do anything he wants to me, please let him do anything he wants to me. He barely even seems to hear me, as my low voice doesn't register on the scale of human hearing. His claws tear my chest and release me from the aching confines of my pants, finally, as the last of my clothing pools at my feet and I kick them aside. His mouth travels along my chest, attaching itself threateningly to my nipple, teasing the sensitive flesh so I buck and twitch more to his rapidly stroking hands. I grit my teeth and thank the gods silently for my stamina—otherwise I would've surely climaxed already. I am a cornered animal, his prey pressed against the cold metal behind me. He's thrusting against me, moaning for the sensation and pleasure, and that maddening hand keeps stroking me. I push my tongue into his ear, rimming the shell of pink flesh, hearing his thunderous moan in the core of me, and making my flesh vibrate as I gasp from pleasure. He needs to be touched, he's craving it, his arousal pressed like a sword cutting into my thigh. I oblige, drinking in his groans as they are ripped from his throat upon my hand thumbing the most sensitive part of his flesh. I buck hard—I want more. I want him to fuck me. Please don't stop touch me, Tim. My mouth moves along the hard length of his chest, intent on giving him the same treatment he'd given me seconds earlier. Instead of being gentle, I bite down hard on his nipple, feeling he deserves the severe pleasure of it. Then my mouth quickly removes itself and I lick my lips. The smell of sex rises like steam in the cave. He moans and it's getting more difficult to contain myself. His hand quivers upon my body and I quirk an eyebrow upwards.

"I want more, Dick..." I swear I feel the sensation of my pupils dilating with desire and pleasure at this statement. He's trembling more than I am and his hand washes over my body though my twitching erection still hasn't found relief. "I want—I want more…" His voice growls in my ear and I moan and bite my lip from desire. My hand bolts to him, stroking his aroused, blood filled flesh, hot like liquid steel. My fingers get coated easily with the sticky sweetness of him and I raise my hands to my mouth, savoring the salty ecstasy that I drink from each of my fingertips, the sultry taste of desire dancing upon my tongue. More… I will give him more. We lock eyes as I extract the last bit of sweetness from my fingertips. My lips move slowly to his, locking them together in hot desire, my hand still upon him, stroking.

"Make love to me," I plead into his mouth, making sure he hears me clearly. "Please, I need to feel you." I am begging—this is new and even more arousing. I push my hips wantingly against his, my soft pink tongue flicking and wandering along his chest, neck, throat. A growl presses against my vocal chords, followed by a small whimper of desire. I am his entirely. My other hand never left his erection, it kept moving with my signature liquid speed and his body quivered with tumultuous desire before his strong fingers clamped over my hand, looking hard into my eyes. He doesn't want to come yet—all right. My hand moves to his hips, and he kisses me. Our flavors mingle and we both moan, low and soft. The air seems humid and tropical, fogged up with desire. I've never had this much desire. He's so strong, pushing my docile form over the consol against which I was prior to his carnal lust taking over. I feel his breathy kisses along my shoulders and realize he's at a loss for what to do. My skin raises and shudders at his fluttering lips. I push my hips back against him, trembling. My breath comes in jerky shakes.

"Please fuck me," a half growl, half whimper. A plea. My hands dig into the icy metallic edges of the platform, knuckles white, bracing myself. Beads of sweat and desire escape my hot skin. I am aware that I am begging. Begging is considered to be shameful in most societies but right now it's just the two of us in the dark together, in the dank cold that was transformed into a place of unimaginable heat and I can let my defenses down. A moan of ascent falls from his trembling mouth—I can't see but I know he's quivering for now it's traveled through the rest of his body and mine by association. I groan too, at the feeling of it. His momentarily waver in confidence is eradicated as he forces one, then two digits inside of me. I grit my teeth at the sensation, feeling thankful that this was not my first time and therefore I could relax myself and enjoy it. I wanted him so badly I throbbed with desire, I'm sure he could sense it and was feeding off of it. Soft noises of pleasure escaped my mouth as my hips pushed back against him, telling him silently I wanted more. Finally, he pushed his leaking arousal into me and my eyes shot open—I hadn't paid attention to the sheer size of him earlier, lost in the sensation. This was unimaginable; I was being split in two as he bucked harder and harder, half dead with pleasure.

"I don't know h-how much longer I can..." I moan loudly, the feeling of bliss coming in waves through my body as he thrusts harder and faster, close to climax.

"Don't stop," I hiss, grinding myself back against him. My chest is almost hitting the razor edge of the consol yet I don't care, I tighten my grip and brace myself further.

"Harder," I'm begging against, whispering his name under my breath. Tim... Tim… Tim… My jaw clenches and I tighten my abdomen, causing my muscles to squeeze around him. A loud moan erupts from his body at this, and I twitch, still so aroused that I'm half blinded by it. He complies, thrusting so hard I almost fall over and grit my teeth at the sensation. First let him have his pleasure, and then I'll have mine. He moves faster still and I'm amazed at his speed. His body trembles and my breathing becomes ragged in anticipation. Finally he comes, a low loud moan, letting loose a torrent of liquid into me in his passion. He stumbles back, exhausted and delirious and I immediately turn and capture him in a searing kiss. I am not always so docile. I growl and my hands are firm on his shoulders, pushing him down to his knees in front of me. He looks up at me in innocent questions, passion still floating like blood in his eyes, and I lick my lips. He'll understand what I want. I stroke his jaw and push a finger into his mouth, watching his warm tongue slip out and taste it curiously. This is just a precursor—I close my eyes, waiting for more, hips rocking forward slowly. His teeth sink gently into my finger and I open my eyes and growl at him. The growl is quickly replaced with a moan as he devours my entire finger, and I've the long fingered hands of a pianist or surgeon. A devilish half smile distorts my features as I push my hips farther forward. My eyes plead with him silently: _Please touch me, Tim. Taste me. Suck me._ My abdomen is glistening with a decorative sheen of sweat, and the lines of my hips seem to converge in Tim's face. His eyes are reflective, glazed with desire for me. He takes each of my fingers into his mouth and I moan at his soft, sucking mouth. My body feels empty without him and I realize this isn't the last time this will happen. Another bestial noise passes through my lips as I picture us tangled and twisting in my bed, him taking the brunt of it this time. How he'll enjoy it, writhe and moan with delicious abandon. How I'll flick my tongue along his length and taste the same salty stickiness I'd enjoyed so much earlier. Mmm. I buck hard. He's playing with me, teasing, me, hands light upon my arousal, tongue embedded in the grooves of my hips. I moan and I cannot stop, nor can I stop my hands from weaving through his thick glossy hair. My voice is strangled in my throat and my hands leave his hair, having to brace myself on the familiar metal consol as I feel the first sensation of his mouth on me, hands digging into my hips, grasping for.. something. It seems he must brace himself as well. My eyes roll back in pleasure as his lips engulf me bit by bit, devouring my throbbing flesh. His actions pluck shaky moans from my lips, culminating in a loud yell when his bold movements find my erection all the way down his throat, twitching with heat and the wet velvet of his mouth. I hope I don't choke him.

"Oh, Tim…" It's hard to hold out; hard to keep from feeling like I've been ushered into the white-hot pleasure that is Heaven. God must've sent him, I keep thinking. I move slowly but inevitably, building ever closer to climax. My sensitive arousal jerks with every breath, every graceful movement of his head and strong, callused hands. I feel the familiar tugging at my core as waves of pleasure overtake and I'm bucking suddenly, stars explode in front of my eyes in a torrent of color as I spill into his mouth with a loud, greedy moan. I hear him choke a bit but, to my surprise, he licks his lips, satisfied, before standing and wrapping his arms around me.

"Oh Dick," I feel him smile against my neck and I smile as well as I contemplate how well we fit together, how our hips jab each other and how his lovely angular face is a puzzle piece in the jigsaw of my crook. My hands sweep gently over the beauty of his sloping back and shoulders before resting in his sweaty hair. I push a kiss to his forehead, possessive and loving. The cold air comes back to us, nipping at our scalding skin. I whisper my love to him and wrap myself around his body, determined to keep him warm.


End file.
